


Desirable business

by DracoIgnis, Dragon_and_Direwolf



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A lot of drinking and smoking be prepared, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Boss Jon, Boss/Employee Relationship, Cunnilingus, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Drinking, F/M, Grumpy Jon, Masturbation, Secretary Daenerys, Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Smoking, Spanking, Stockings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 64,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25094101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoIgnis/pseuds/DracoIgnis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_Direwolf/pseuds/Dragon_and_Direwolf
Summary: In 1960's New York, creative director Jon Snow is faced with a challenge. His new secretary Daenerys is everything he is not; kind, friendly and innocent. With her around the office, he finds it hard to distinguish between reality and his fantasies. There can be consequences to desiring someone you should not have.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 816
Kudos: 864





	1. A scent of peaches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DragonandDirewolf and I are so happy to finally share this project with you all! We have been working on this for a while but didn't want to start posting until everything was done.
> 
> The story was originally planned for Jonerys Kink Fest in May, but it turned out longer than expected, so we've held it back until now. We planned the plot together, with myself doing the writing and DragonandDirewolf contributing the art. We are planning to update this weekly and hope you'll enjoy this collaboration of writing and art.
> 
> Please note: although the setting of a New York advertisement agency is inspired by Mad Men, no knowledge of the TV show is required to enjoy the story as it's been created specifically for Jonerys.

Jon lights a cigarette as he glances toward the woman in front of him. He doesn’t know her name, but he’s sure she mainly goes by title anyway; not Miss or Mrs, but _friend, lover,_ certainly _mistress._ She has dark red hair. The makeup is heavy around her eyes. As she sips her gimlet, he thinks he spots her looking at him, but it’s hard to tell in the dimly lit bar. The lamp above their corner booth is broken. He believes she chose the spot on purpose.

“You didn’t even ask,” the woman says and puts down her drink.

Jon blows out smoke and reaches for the ashtray. “Ask what?”

“If you could smoke.”

“Can I?” Jon says and has another drag.

The woman’s lips part in a pop, and she leans against the backrest with her brows quirked. “I bet you don’t even remember my name.”

“Rose,” Jon picks at random.

“Ros,” she corrects him.

Jon shrugs: “I was close,” and he taps the ashes into the tray before looking around for a waiter. The place is busy - packed with suits and mop tops and highballs. A pair of young men are exchanging business cards. Jon stretches his neck to see if he recognises either of them. “Have you been here before?”

“This place is full of men who think of themselves as the next big thing in business,” Ros replies and rummages through her handbag. “They’re keen to spend their money to prove that they have any, so naturally,” she pulls out a cigarette and leans over the table, her eyes focused on Jon, “I come here all the time.”

Jon lights her smoke. “I can guess your line of work.”

“Don’t insult me,” Ros says, but there is a smile on her lips. She makes a show out of blowing smoke into the air - her neck swings back like a bird sipping water, the red curls bouncing around her shoulders. “Mr Greyjoy thought we might be good friends.”

“Theon tries to expand my group of female acquaintances weekly,” Jon points out bitterly, and he downs the rest of his whisky as the waiter shows up by their table. “Another one. Canadian Club.”

“Manhattan, please,” Ros smiles, her gimlet barely touched. She leans across the table, the glimpse in her eyes mischievous as she reaches for Jon’s hand. “Do you not enjoy friendships?” she asks.

Jon scoots back in the booth, and his eyes narrow. “I’m too busy.”

“What’re you doing tonight?”

“Depends on the traffic.”

“How so?”

Jon pushes up his sleeve to glance at his watch. “If I leave soon, I might be able to catch the next episode of Gunsmoke.”

Ros laughs and shakes her head, but she pulls her hand back. “Mr Greyjoy was right,” she says, turning her cigarette between her fingers as her eyes scour the bar, “talking to you is like chipping away at an iceberg with a toothpick.” As the waiter arrives, she grabs both drinks from his tray and places them in front of herself. “I think it’s time we split.”

“I can finish that,” Jon says and gestures at the whisky, but Ros places her hand flat on top of the glass and sends him a curt look.

“You can pay for it,” she says, “as a thank you for putting up with you tonight. It’s not cheap looking the way I do.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Jon says, but he still withdraws a few notes from his wallet and places them on the table. Ros’ painted nails drags across the cloth toward the cash at once, but Jon pointedly keeps his hand on top of the money until the waiter swings by again and collects the bill. “It’s his tip,” he says, “the drinks are yours.”

“You don’t actually think I drink whisky,” Ros says as she watches him put on his coat and hat.

“No,” Jon admits, “but I bet he does.” He nods toward a suited fellow making his way toward the booth, his blue eyes keenly staring at Ros. As Jon walks out of the bar, the last thing he hears is Ros’ sultry voice as she greets the gentleman:

“What’re you doing tonight, Mister?”

The glass and steel of New York City are wet. Jon glances up at the grey sky as he lights another cigarette. He doesn’t bother getting an umbrella - as he makes his way toward Times Square, he pulls the brim of his hat down over his brows.

The area is ripe with cigarette ads and overpriced liquor and peep shows. Jon slows down as he passes an adult theatre. Just because he’s not going to dip his nose between Ros’ legs doesn’t mean his evening is ruined. He pauses to consider his options, but he’s distracted. There, on the other side of the slick street, is a woman.

Jon has a drag of his cigarette as he watches her; she’s short, and pale, and not dressed for the weather. Her beehive is coming undone, and her lace evening gown is soaked. As she aimlessly circles the traffic light, men approach her only to be shooed away dismissively. She looks distressed. Jon eyes her for a moment longer, finishes his smoke, and then, begrudgingly, stalks across the street.

“Are you okay?” he asks as he approaches.

The woman waves. “I’m not interested.”

“In being okay?” Jon stops, and she turns to peer at him.

The woman is the embodiment of the girl-next-door, from her big naive eyes to her coy stance. She wraps her fingers together at her front. Her white gloves shine in the rain. “I am afraid I am lost,” she admits.

“I can see that,” Jon says. He resists the urge to light another smoke. “Where’s home?”

“Milwaukee,” she replies, “but I’m heading to Brooklyn. Can I walk it?”

“Not in those heels.”

The woman sighs and starts pacing the ground again. “I am in Times Square, am I not?” she asks, but before Jon can reply, she continues: “This city is so big. My mother warned me. She said, _Daenerys, the place will swallow you whole._ I said, _Ma, Milwaukee is too boring._ ” She watches the grand neon sign advertising a burlesque show. “Perhaps she was right.”

Jon watches as the woman - Daenerys, supposedly - rubs what little skin is visible between her gloves and dress sleeves. She is soaked, and shivering, and the fabric of her gown sticks to her well-rounded body, leaving Jon to roam her backside. He wonders what her skin feels like above those black stockings. Then, he pulls off his coat. “Here,” he hands it over, “you’ll catch a cold.”

“So will you,” Daenerys replies, but she still takes it and wraps it around her body. The hem almost reaches the ground. “Thank you, you’re the first person to stop.”

“That’s not true,” Jon says, buttoning up his shirt sleeves. The evening wind bashes to his frame. He gives in and lights a cigarette for warmth. “I saw plenty of men approach you.”

“You were watching me?” Daenerys shakes her head. “They didn’t stop to help.”

“This is not a good part of the city.”

“That’s what people say wherever I go.” Daenerys reaches out her hand, and Jon gives it a shake. Her fingers look tiny in his palm. He tries not to squeeze too hard. “I’m Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Jon Snow,” Jon replies, smoke seeping from the corners of his mouth. “Can I get you a cab?”

“Oh, that’s what got me in trouble to begin with,” Daenerys laughs.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’ve had a bit to drink.” She pulls her fingers through her hair. Her updo has collapsed. Thick drenched locks hang down her shoulders. She wrenches water out of them as she speaks: “I was at a party - can you tell? - and it was a gas. But I tire easily, so I got a cab back. Only the driver took me here instead.”

Jon watches on dully. As Daenerys looks at him, he mutters: “Aha,” to show he’s listening, but his mind is elsewhere.

He’s back at the bar. He buys a woman a drink. Only this time, she doesn’t have red curls but a silver beehive. As he quietly drinks his whisky, she fills the silence with nonsensical blabbering. When he leaves, she’s at his arm, heading for the Waldorf.

“He tried it on. I should’ve listened to my flatmate - she said, _Wait for me, just one more dance and I’ll come._ Of course, she always says that. Anyway, I fled the car and he took off with my coat and handbag.” Daenerys quiets, and she concludes: “You weren’t listening, were you?”

“Not really,” Jon admits. “Can I get you that cab?”

They walk side by side in the downpour. Out of the corners of his eyes, Jon watches Daenerys’ face, and her neck, and her small hands just barely sticking out of the coat sleeves. “What brought you to the city?” he asks.

“I got hired as a secretary,” Daenerys replies. She stops fiddling with her hair and instead clenches onto the coat. “That’s what we were celebrating tonight.”

“Congratulations,” Jon says, his eyes scouring the streets for a cab. The weather keeps them busy. Two pass them by without pausing, water splashing onto the pavement.

Daenerys replies tiredly: “Don’t bother - they don’t pay me that well.”

“Well, they say anyone can become someone.”

“Are you?” Daenerys asks. As Jon catches her eyes, he notices that they are violet. Her lashes bash with curiosity. “Are you someone?”

Jon rolls his cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other as he considers her question. He could be anyone - she is too sincere. If he said he owned Wall Street, he’s certain she would believe him. So he doesn’t say anything.

Daenerys decides: “You could be in the movies. You have that face.”

“John Wayne?”

“You think you’re a tough man?” Daenerys smiles amused. “No, James Stewart.”

“He’s the American ideal,” Jon points out.

“I suppose I’m not far off then.” She cocks her head to the side and then boldly reaches up to touch his beard. Her glove is smooth against his roughly trimmed hairs. “Mr Jon Snow,” she muses, “it does have a nice sound to it. I can see it on a billboard.”

“Like that one?” Jon gestures across the street. The adult theatre lights up the steady line of suited men scurrying inside, pretending to seek shelter from the rain as their eyes ravage the posters.

Daenerys flushes: “Now you’re just being crude.” She can’t hide a giggle, but it disappears as a car pulls over. Her grip around the coat tightens. “How can I know he’ll get me home?”

“Watch,” Jon says and walks up to the driver side window. He knocks on the glass. It cracks open a bit. A young man stares back at him.

“Evening, Mister.”

“That young lady,” he points at Daenerys, “is heading home to her mother in Brooklyn. She’s expecting her in half an hour. Understand?” He pushes a few notes through the glass.

The driver grabs the money, counts it, and tips his hat. “Thank you, Sir,” he says, his voice audibly more pleasant, “she will be safe with me, Sir, I guarantee it, Sir.”

Jon turns back to Daenerys who bites down on her lower lip not to smile. “Money buys everything,” Jon says.

“Wouldn’t that be a man’s dream,” she replies, but she doesn’t deliberate. She shrugs out of his coat and hands it back. When he pulls it on, it smells like peaches. “It has been a pleasure running into you, Mr Snow,” she says, pausing before him. She peers up at him from between her lashes. Despite the rain, a last bit of white makeup clings onto her eyelids.

“Miss,” Jon says, tipping the brim of his hat, but she still doesn’t move. Instead, her gloved fingers press to his tie. She rubs the fabric. Her eyes don’t waver.

“I can make coffee,” she says. Her voice is lower now. There’s heat to her words. The way she chews her lower lip is full of excitement. Like a girl being gifted her first pair of heels - it’s a rite to adulthood. “I can make something stronger, too.”

For a moment, Jon’s mind travels back to his fantasy; him, a silver beehive, the Waldorf. Bed, soft. Lips, moving. Bodies, rocking. The scent of peaches grows stronger.

Jon steps aside. He grabs the door, opens it, and nods toward the backseat. “Stay safe, Miss Targaryen,” he says, “and good night.”

Daenerys’ face goes bright pink. Her fingers slip off his tie. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I’m really not that kind of girl.”

“I know,” Jon says.

“I've had a bit to drink,” she continues. She slips into the back of the cab, her hands resting in her lap as she glances up at him. “I’m really not that kind of girl,” she repeats.

“Plenty of men will try to make you one,” Jon says.

“Thank you for your help,” Daenerys replies, her face still red.

Jon closes the door and waves them off. He stands in the downpour until the cab is out of view, then drops his cigarette into a pond. He catches his reflection. “James Stewart,” he mumbles and narrows his eyes. Then, for the first time that evening, he smiles, drags his hat further down to cover his face, and sets off home.

* * *

When Jon arrives at work, he doesn’t glance at his secretary; Gilly is inept at best, and tends to stutter when a man looks directly at her. He thrusts his coat into her hands and brushes the rain off his hat. “Good morning,” he says, his voice suggesting it is anything but. “Any messages?”

But it is not Gilly’s shrill tone that greets him; Margaery, a woman with sharp cheekbones and cat-like eyes, accepts his hat with a low: “Good morning, Mr Snow.” When she smiles, her brown eyes command the attention of the whole room.

Jon looks at her for long enough to notice that she’s wearing a teal dress. A golden necklace is her only adornment. She reminds him of a Blue Hawaiian. “Miss Tyrell,” he greets.

“Can I get you some coffee?” she asks.

“Sure, but that’s not why you’ve come to see me.”

“It isn’t,” she admits, and when he walks into his office, she stops at the threshold and watches him.

The space is dressed with teak panelling and plain wooden furniture. Rain is hammering against the large windows offering a bleak view of Manhattan. Jon heads straight for the liquor cabinet in the corner. He looks at the bottle of Canadian Club, the golden rimmed glasses, and the small yellow ashtray. He checks the time. It’s just past ten. With a sigh, he grabs the ashtray and heads toward his desk.

“Come in,” Jon says and waves at Margaery who slides across the carpeted floor, “what can I do for you?”

“You have a meeting with Mr Tarly and Mr Lannister at half past ten,” Margaery says, “but your lunch with Mr Baratheon has been moved to Thursday.”

“Which one?” Jon asks, lighting a smoke.

“Robert,” Margaery replies. She claps her hands together at her front as she adds: “Mrs Baratheon will be out of town from Wednesday. I’ve already left some aspirins in your drawer.”

Jon groans around the cigarette as he settles behind his desk. “A wet lunch,” he mumbles. “Thank you, Miss Tyrell, but it is hardly your place to give me these messages. Get Gilly in here.”

Margaery smiles patiently. “Gilly contacted me with good news - she is with child.”

“Good news for whom?” Jon grumbles. He leans back in his chair as he watches Margaery. “What does she want, an easier desk?”

“I have already arranged a replacement,” Margaery says and cranes her neck out of the door. She does a short wave. There is a sound of heels hurrying across the floor. “Mr Snow, this is Miss Targaryen. She will be your new secretary.”

Jon stares as the silver beehive returns, only it’s no longer a beehive; Daenerys has a perfect bouffant and red dress. The fabric hugs her every curve. Jon can’t decide if he likes it or not. “Miss,” he says and gets up. He reaches for her hand, and she gingerly lets him shake it. Her cheeks are bright pink.

“Mr Snow,” she replies, her voice faint. “A pleasure.”

Jon’s eyes rest on a wet stripe down her front. “Did you get caught in the rain?” he asks, stopping short of saying _again._

Daenerys looks like she doesn’t know what to say, so Margaery replies: “I believe that’s from your coat, Mr Snow. You did hand it to Miss Targaryen just now.”

“Right,” Jon says, realising that Gilly was never there. He has another drag of his smoke. “Welcome aboard.”

“Thank you,” Daenerys says. Her face is the same colour as her dress. She is not looking him in the eyes.

“Let me get you that coffee,” Margaery says, and she leads Daenerys with her.

Jon watches as their heels scuffle over the threshold. Someone leaves behind a scent of peaches. He closes his eyes, has a drag of his smoke, and exhales slowly. He feels ready to dive back into his weekend fantasy.

The door has barely shut before it swings open again, and three men rush inside: Tyrion Lannister, short and red-faced, his legs already buckling from his third whisky sour. Right behind him is Theon Greyjoy, lean and rough, his stubbly chin wet with aftershave. Samwell Tarly enters last, a broad man with a shy face. His big, brown eyes seek Jon immediately.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he watches as the other two men head straight to the liquor cabinet. “I know the meeting is not until half past.” He’s the only one with a file. He carefully places it on Jon’s desk.

Jon has another drag of his smoke as he watches Tyrion pour three generous glasses of whisky. “I’m sure you’re here to celebrate an ingenious idea?” he says.

“Indeed!” Tyrion hands one glass to Theon. He brings the other two with him as he waddles toward Jon’s desk, the smile on his lips slick. His suit is new and perfectly fitted. He manages to make it look dishevelled. “What an ingenious idea to hire that young plaything. Does she have a name?”

“I’m sure you’ve already thought up a few,” Jon replies and accepts the glass.

Tyrion shrugs. “I do work in creative.”

“Miss Daenerys Targaryen,” Samwell says. He fiddles with his tie. It’s too short, and the knot is askew. “Miss Tyrell told me.”

“Don’t you just know all the gossip,” Tyrion replies. It doesn’t sound like a compliment. Samwell still smiles.

Theon is swirling the whisky around his glass. He settles on the yellow sofa up against the back-wall and watches Jon. “How was your weekend, Jon?” he asks.

“Are you working on radios now?” Jon asks as he flips through Samwell’s file. There are drawings, and paper cut-outs. The idea is neatly presented. He dislikes it at once. “I don’t remember you being invited to this meeting.”

“I thought you like redheads,” Theon continues. “Your ex-wife has red hair, doesn’t she?”

“No more dates,” Jon says curtly.

“Not even with that one?” Tyrion asks and gestures toward the door with his glass. Whisky spills down the sides and onto the carpet. He rubs his shoe across the spot as if to make it disappear. “Pretty little thing. I wonder where she’s from.”

“Milwaukee,” Jon says, still flipping pages.

Theon whistles. “A name and a hometown? You know more about her than any other secretary you’ve ever had. How long did Gilly work here, five years?”

“Four,” Samwell says a bit too quickly.

Tyrion and Theon snicker, exchanging looks. “You’d know, wouldn’t you?” Theon says.

“Is anyone here to work?” Jon asks and pushes the file back into Samwell’s hands. He looks at them exasperated, smoke seeping from his lips. “If you want a new secretary, go talk to Miss Tyrell.”

“Like that would ever work,” Theon whispers to Tyrion. “I’ve been stuck with Yara for months.”

“You could do worse,” Tyrion says, pouring another glass of whisky.

“She’s my _sister._ ”

“I don’t mind Shae,” he continues. He’s watching his drink as if deep in thought. “She’s got an attitude. I rather like it.”

Before Jon can raise his voice, Samwell pulls a drawing out of the file and shows it to Jon. It’s a sketch of an astronaut holding a small transistor radio. “Wherever,” he says, beaming, “listen in.”

The room falls silent. Even Theon stops snickering. As Jon looks at the sketch, he feels all eyes are on him. They are anticipating his reaction. He makes sure not to move a muscle. He has a drag of his smoke, a sip of the whisky, and then says: “We can’t make false claims.” It’s like letting the air out of a balloon - all the men seem to collapse in on themselves.

“It’s not false,” Samwell insists.

“Are you telling me the Mercury Seven can listen to the Beatles from their spacecraft?”

He hesitates. “Maybe?” He then says: “Who can prove us wrong?”

“If our client is hit with a lawsuit, we’ll always be wrong,” Jon points out.

“Show him the next one,” Tyrion urges, and Samwell pulls out another drawing. This time, a woman in a bikini is kissing a white radio, a red lipstick mark brandishing its side.

“You’ll love it,” Samwell reads the tagline, but even he doesn’t sound convinced.

Jon snubs his smoke out in the ashtray. “That’s all you’ve got?” he asks. He feels nauseated. Perhaps it’s the whisky, but he decides to blame it on the scent of peaches. He can’t seem to get rid of it. He gets up, stuffs his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and paces in front of the windows. The rain has picked up. It drums around him. “It’s a pocket radio. You can take wherever you go. It’s revolutionary,” he says and glances at the men.

Tyrion is sipping his drink unbothered. Theon has the courtesy to look ashamed.

Jon stops at his desk. He looks between them. Then, he states: “Wherever, whenever - the world is in your hands.”

Samwell looks at Tyrion who gives a nod with his brows raised. “It’s good.”

“Is that our tagline?” Samwell asks, his voice excited.

Jon waves them off as the door opens and Margaery enters, coffee in hand. “That’s your job. Come back with three drawings at the end of the day.”

As the men leave, Theon smirks at Margaery. “Can I set up a meeting with Miss Targaryen?" he asks. "She looks to have a skilful set of hands.”

“To think you’d know,” Margaery replies, “I’ve yet to see you use yours.” She smiles at him sweetly, and he pushes his way past Tyrion to be first out of the office, his face wrenched in a grimace. Margaery places the cup down on Jon’s desk and leaves, but the door doesn’t shut.

Jon sits down and glances up. Samwell is still at the threshold. “What?”

“I’m sure you heard about Gilly,” he says, fiddling with his file.

Jon looks at the coffee but continues with his whisky. “She’s pregnant,” he says as a matter of fact, “I’d say it’s unlikely she’ll return. Sorry Sam - I know you wanted her at your desk.”

Samwell’s face flushes. “That’s not it,” he says. He looks outside, then grabs at the door and pulls it closed. By the time he turns to face Jon again, he’s gone completely red. “I would like to ask for a raise.”

Jon leans back in his chair. “A raise?” he says tiredly.

“Five dollars a week,” Sam continues.

Jon can’t help but send him an incredulous look. “You give me one good idea a month and you think that’s worth five dollars?” he asks. “Miss Tyrell has done more work on your accounts than you have.”

Samwell hesitates. “Three dollars?”

“What’s this got to do with Gilly?”

“I plan to marry her,” Samwell says.

Jon’s eyes narrow. “You plan to marry her,” he repeats. The words dawn on him slowly, and he shakes his head with a bitter smile. “You get my secretary pregnant, and you want to get paid for the privilege,” he says.

Samwell tears at his file. Small parts of the cardboard folder are loosening. They drop to the floor like confetti. “It’s expensive to raise a child,” he says.

“You should’ve thought of that earlier,” Jon says, putting his glass of whisky down. He shakes his head. “Three drawings by the end of the day.”

“Right.” Samwell’s head drops, and he shuffles out of the office, the door closing behind him.

Jon stares around the room. It suddenly feels awfully quiet. He then tips the rest of his drink into his coffee before sipping it with a sigh. His eyes fall on his open diary on the desk. In Margaery’s perfect handwriting, it says: THE FOUR SEASONS, MR BARATHEON (R) - THURSDAY.

Jon closes his eyes. He tries to imagine what his boss would want to talk about. It is likely to have little to do with work and a lot to do with women in bunny costumes and martinis. If Cersei is out of town, he might as well call someone to watch his dog - Robert’s lunch plans tend to stretch over several days when he’s in a good mood.

Still, something else nags at Jon, and he rubs his chest to calm his quickened heartbeat. He reaches for the intercom. “Gilly,” he calls.

There’s a pause before Daenerys replies: “This is Miss Targaryen.”

Jon stares at the closed door. He can just imagine her sitting out there, pale and nervous, wringing her hands as she mulls over the best way to correct her new boss. He could be snarky. He decides to show goodwill. “Of course,” he says, pressing the button, “Miss Targaryen - please get me an outside line.”

“Right away.”

Jon waits for a moment. Then, he picks up his phone, dials the number from memory, and waits for her to pick up.

A woman’s voice answers: “Hello?”

Jon asks: “Did you get the cheque?”

* * *

When Jon leaves his office at five, there’s a buzz of activity around his secretary’s desk. Theon is leaning in over the typewriter, one hand in his pocket, as he smiles at Daenerys.

“I can get us in at Benihana,” he says. “I can show you how to use those knitting needles.”

“I know how to use chopsticks,” Daenerys says. She’s smiling. Her face is too friendly.

Theon shrugs. “Then I guess you can show me!”

Jon grabs his hat off the coat rack before Daenerys notices him. She jumps to her feet, almost knocking her coffee over in the process. “Mr Snow,” she says, “are you finished for the day?” She grabs his coat and hands it over.

Jon pulls it on with a wary look at Theon. “Whenever I see you, you’re not working,” he comments. “Should I be worried?”

Theon throws out his hands. “My work is done. I’m just good at what I do.”

“Really? Because I’ve yet to see what that is,” Jon retorts before his eyes slip across the rest of the crowd. All are men, and all avoid his gaze. “What if Mr Baratheon was to walk in here? Half of you would be off the payroll in seconds.”

“It’s not Robert who fills the coffers,” Theon grumbles, but he trods off with a deflected look on his face.

As the men disperse, Daenerys pulls the cover over her typewriter with a sigh. “Thank you,” she says and glances up at Jon, “I’ve been feeling like I’m at the zoo all day, only I’m on the wrong side of the cage.”

“Your job is to get work done,” Jon says, “no matter the circumstances. I’m not here to fend for you.”

“Oh, I’m not complaining,” Daenerys says quickly. Her cheeks are glowing. “I enjoy it. Really. It’s been a wonderful day.” Her voice is chipper.

Jon can’t help but frown. “Good night, Miss.” He sets off toward the elevators, only Daenerys calls out to him:

“Jon.” Jon stops and turns to look at her aghast. Her face goes even darker. “I mean, Mr Snow,” she stutters, “sorry. It just slipped. I-” She pauses. She swallows. “Mr Snow, what happened this weekend - I hope you won’t hold it against me. I promise that it’s not a sign of my character. I really am very professional.”

As he looks at her, flustered and stammering, her eyes big like saucers, Jon wants to smile. But he doesn’t. He glances at her desk. “Are you finished for the day?”

“Yes,” she says, but hurriedly adds: “Unless you want me to type something up?”

“Grab your coat,” he says, “and follow me.”

They walk to the elevators side by side. The office is emptying out around them. Jon lets most of the workers go before choosing a quiet ride for them. There’s just the two of them and the operator who stares silently at the buttons.

“Is this your first position?” Jon asks.

Daenerys looks between him and her hands. She seems uncertain where to rest her eyes, but finally settles on somewhere around his collar. “No,” she says, “I used to work in a filing department.”

“Back in Milwaukee?”

She blinks. “I’m surprised you remember,” she says, “but yes. Back home.”

Jon pulls a smile. It relaxes her. He can see the air seep out of her nostrils in relief. “See, that’s the problem,” he says, “it’s no longer home. New York is home.”

“Of course,” Daenerys says, but she’s a little too keen.

“Men here will treat you differently. Don’t ask me if it’s fair, they just will.”

“Miss Tyrell has been very open with me about the work,” Daenerys says. When he looks into her eyes, he finds they’re shining with confidence. “I will manage, Mr Snow. But thank you for your concern.”

Jon doesn’t break eye contact with her until the doors open onto the ground floor. Men in suits rush past them. Women walk in groups, laughing. He gestures for Daenerys to walk out first and then follows her to the entrance. He holds the door open, but she shakes her head.

“I’m waiting for a friend,” she says and then smiles: “Thank you again, Mr Snow, your kindness is appreciated.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Jon says, and he’s not sure if he’s joking or not. Still, Daenerys nods, and she dutifully waits for him to exit before walking back toward the sofas.

Once outside, Jon lights a smoke. His body itches. He doesn’t know what he wants, but he craves _something._ He waves down a cab and slips onto the backseat. “Times Square,” he says, but just as quickly: “No, 73rd Street.” He throws his smoke out of the window and nestles back against the leather as the vehicle takes off toward his apartment. For some reason, the seats smell like peaches. He tries to ignore it, but images start flickering in his brain:

Silver bouffant. Red dress. Soft skin. Wet lips. It’s a hotel, or maybe his own bed. The drinks on the nightstand are untouched. His fingers are busy. Two bodies are working up a sweat. He can’t see, but he can hear things. A warm voice whispers:

“Sir.”

Jon looks out of the window. He recognises the building. He turns to the driver. The man glances back over his shoulder at him. “Sir,” he repeats, “we’re here.”

“Right.” Jon pulls out his wallet. He hands the man a few too many notes and staggers out of the car. He breathes in deeply. He shakes his head. Only one thing is clear to him: he’s never buying another peach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to LadyTarg for the beautiful moodboard that goes with this chapter. It really highlights everything this story is about; smoking, drinking, and naughty fantasies. It was such a nice surprise which I can't stop staring at. I really love it, and I hope you do too!
> 
> Many thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, please leave a comment and let us know. Hope to see you next week!


	2. The stocking debacle

As Robert cuts into his second filet mignon, Jon leans back in his seat and withdraws a cigarette from his pocket. Almost immediately, a bunny is by his side; she’s short, slim, and her blonde hair is pulled back under a set of black rabbit ears. They bob as she reaches over and lights his smoke with a smile.

Jon exhales. “Thank you,” he says.

Robert watches her as she titters off to tend another table. “I tried to get in Bessie’s section, but she’s off. Can you believe that they’re not allowed to tell me what days she’s working? I haven’t seen her for weeks!” He puts down the cutlery and grabs his glass of wine. He empties it in almost a single gulp.

Robert is large, red, and rich - Jon can almost smell the cash in his wallet from across the table. He has another drag of his smoke before he replies: “I’m sure it’s nothing personal.”

“I’m certain it is!” Robert slams his glass back down and waves at a random girl. “Bunny! Another bottle.” He digs into his filet again, but his brown eyes are unfocused. He’s cutting into the plate. “Bessie,” he says and shakes his head with a grunt, “she’s great.”

“How’s your wife?” Jon asks.

Robert stuffs his mouth with meat. “No family chatter,” he says and points his fork at Jon. “That’s an order.”

“I thought we were going to The Four Seasons,” Jon says and looks around the Playboy Club. The walls are painted dark, but they are lit up by large scale photos of bunnies showcasing their best smiles. It’s hard to tell if any of the women walking the floor have posed for the pictures - to Jon, they all look the same. “I like the food there.”

“You live on whisky, and it tastes the same everywhere. Besides, this table comes with a view.” Robert pushes his plate aside as the wine arrives. His eyes rest on the woman’s pink outfit; when she leans in to fill his glass, her cleavage hovers his nose. Robert grunts: “And what a view this is. Look, honey, get a glass, fill it with Canadian Club, and once it starts spilling down the sides, bring that _and_ the bottle back.”

She sends them a pleasant smile. “Having a good time?”

“I am now.” Robert withdraws a wad of cash from his suit jacket. He counts, pulls out three tens, and hands them to the waitress with a wink.

The woman bashes her lashes. “Oh Sir, I shouldn’t,” she says, but her nails have already closed around the notes.

Jon blows out smoke. “You should,” he says, “for putting up with his antics.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure,” she assures Robert, her hand brushing his shoulder as she passes him.

“Did you see that?” Robert asks. He’s chuckling as he stuffs his money away. “All women are the same. Maybe I could pay my wife to look at me.”

“Do you want her to?”

Robert wipes his mouth off in a napkin, throws it aside, and leans over the table. “Do you remember my daughter Myrcella?”

Jon shuffles in his seat. “I thought you said no family talk.”

“Never have kids, Jon, all they do is make you feel old. She’s already buying makeup and stealing my cigarettes. Do you know where I was the night she was born? I don’t. Probably drunk. I should’ve been at the hospital. That’s what Cersei keeps saying to me. I hate when she’s right.”

Jon licks his teeth. He’s not eaten, but it tastes like he has; Robert’s breath is heavy with the smell of meat and wine. When he talks, the stench settles across Jon’s face like a thin layer of sweat. He fights himself not to wipe his brows.

“Look, I know what you’re going to ask me,” he says, but Robert holds up his hand to silence him.

“She’s nothing like her mother,” he says. “She’s sweet, and kind. She’ll make a perfect wife.”

“Then it’s a lucky man who gets to make her happy,” Jon says. A tense pause follows. He tries to recall how many times Robert has breached the subject of his daughter with him. If his brother Robb was here, Jon thinks, he would be the one propositioned. Jon would just be a pointless background piece.

The bunny returns. She places a full glass of whisky in front of Jon. He grabs it, downs half, and makes a move to stand.

“Sit down,” Robert says. He’s been staring at him, but now his face relaxes. “Forget it - I brought you here for business.”

“Really?” Jon doesn’t believe him. He still settles back in his seat.

“You young men are all shameless. I did start the company.” Robert reaches for his coat and starts digging through his pockets. “I had oysters the other night. Slimy little things - it felt like eating tongues. If I wanted that experience, I would’ve gone to another establishment!” He laughs but, upon seeing Jon’s neutral face, continues in a scoff: “Tywin insisted. Interesting people that man knows and never introduces. Ran into a Mr Martell.”

“Like the resort chain?” Jon asks, and Robert’s face glows.

“That’s just it. After a few martinis, I was told that they’re tired of just being sunshine destinations. They’ve got their eyes on cities now - New York, Cleveland, Detroit.” Robert’s fat fingers dig into the last pocket of his coat, and he pulls out a business card. He hands it over - thick cream paper, golden lettering.

Jon turns the square between his fingers. “Oberyn Martell?” he says. “I thought Doran Martell ran the chain.”

“The old man has one foot in the ground. TB.”

Jon snubs his smoke out in the ashtray. “My condolences.”

“The boy doesn’t care. He just wants to see the legacy grow bigger.” Robert leans back and sighs. “He’s not unlike Renly, only better looking.”

“So he’s like Stannis?” Jon says, and Robert breaks into a laugh. Even Jon is smiling, his eyes focused on the business card. “Is there a meeting set up?”

“Have your girl call his girl. You know how this works - ah, I’m tired of talking business!” Robert reaches out and squeezes the tail of a passing bunny. She sends him a scandalous look before hurrying off. “Talking of girls, I saw you got a new secretary. I’d call that one an upgrade.”

“I should get back to the office,” Jon says and grabs his coat.

Robert sighs, but he doesn’t stop him. He leans back and watches Jon with foggy eyes. “I remember when I used to rush back to my secretary. Those were the days. Now, Miss Tyrell only gives me the scraps. One more incident, and she’ll get a man on my desk. I just know it.”

Jon sends his boss a pointed look. “I’ve never taken advantage of my staff,” he says and puts on his hat.

“Then you’re missing out.” Robert pours himself another glass of wine. As Jon takes his leave, he calls after him: “If you won’t, someone else will. It’s just a matter of time.”

The moment he’s out of sight, Jon rubs his face off in his sleeve. The taste of Robert’s breath still lingers on his skin. The waitress from earlier passes him on the staircase. She hands him a piece of gum. “How do you do it?” he asks, unwrapping the sweet and popping it in his mouth. It tastes of strawberries. He doesn’t like it.

The bunny smiles. “He tips well,” she says, “and he’s funny.”

“Do you spend all your money on gum?”

“What are you, an accountant?” She twirls a lock of hair around her finger as she looks him up and down. “If you want to go over my numbers, I finish at five.”

Jon looks at her. She reminds him of Myrcella; blonde, and pretty, and too young to be fending for herself in a world full of men. He doesn’t want her. He wants to put her on a bus to school. After a pause, he fishes out a note and sticks it into her hand. “Make sure he goes home alone,” he says, “he’s married.”

“Aren’t they all?” she replies and walks off with the cash.

* * *

Jon doesn’t sleep that night. He keeps thinking of the Martells; he wonders about their market share, and their clientele. He comes up with slogans and hates them all immediately. Before the sun rises, he puts on his suit, pays the neighbour’s girl a dollar to walk his dog, and heads to work.

Like his apartment, the office is plain and quiet. The janitor greets him on the way in, but else he’s alone in the sea of secretary desks and covered typewriters. He walks past the frosted glass windows leading to Tyrion’s office, Samwell’s office, and then, finally, his own. The door is askew. He can hear movement. He checks his watch. Perhaps the cleaning lady is still working - Osha is slow, and she scares easily. He stops at the threshold and looks inside.

The desk is clean. The ashtray is empty. The whisky glasses are polished. Daenerys is sitting on the sofa.

Jon pauses as his eyes land on her. Her blue dress is pulled up over her thighs. The skin is flushed from where her stockings have gnawed at her legs. The sheer fabric is rolled into her hands, and she’s pulling it down over her pale calves. Her heels are scattered on the floor. It looks like she just kicked them off.

Jon holds his breath. He leans back and watches her through the crack between the hinges.

The clasps from Daenerys’ garter belt hang loose as she drags off the stocking and holds it out in front of her. The lamp behind her is on. Its orange light shines on a tear just at the top of the fabric. She sighs. She reaches behind her. A bottle of varnish is nestled on a cushion. She places her stocking across her knee, unscrews the lid, and starts painting at the rip.

Jon is not sure for how long he watches her. He takes in her silver curls, and pouted lips, and silk scarf. It hangs at her bosom. He wonders what kind of brassier she wears. Then, he steps inside.

“Miss Targaryen,” he says, looking directly at her.

Daenerys’ head snaps up, and her cheeks go pink. “Mr Snow!” she says. Her voice is shrill with surprise. For a moment, she looks like she doesn’t know what to do. When she catches his eyes on her legs, she pulls her skirt back down. “I’m so sorry, I thought no one was in yet.”

“This is my office,” Jon says, “not a ladies’ room.”

“Of course. I’m so sorry.” Daenerys scurries to her feet. As she steps into her heels, her stocking dangles from her hand. “I didn’t realise they were torn. I just came to work. Oh, Mr Snow, I’m so embarrassed.”

Jon watches her as she wringes the fabric into her hand as if to make it disappear. Her eyes are big and scared. When she peeps:

“Will you fire me?” he slowly puts down his briefcase and pulls off his hat.

“Did you contact Mr Martell?”

“Yes, I set up a meeting.”

“Put it in my diary.”

“I did.” Daenerys pauses. She looks like she wants to run, but she remains. “It’s in your diary. Next Friday at four.”

Jon quirks his brow. He glances back at his desk and looks at his schedule. In Daenerys’ swirly handwriting, it reads: THE OAK ROOM, MR MARTELL (O) - FRIDAY. “They own a chain of hotels,” Jon points out and turns back to her. “That’s at the Plaza. It’s an insult.”

“It’s a request,” Daenerys says. She doesn’t look certain, but she continues: “Mrs Martell insisted on it.”

“There’s a Mrs Martell?”

“I believe her actual name is Miss Ellaria Sand, but Mr Martell’s secretary strongly suggested we do not refer to her as such.” Daenerys bites her lower lip as she watches him.

Jon pulls out a cigarette and lights it. He doesn’t break eye-contact with Daenerys. “I recorded some things last night,” he says. “I need them typed up.”

“For the chocolate bars? They’re on your desk.”

Once more, Jon glances at his desk and sees the paperwork. It’s placed right next to his recorder.

“The tape is new,” Daenerys says. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to record over the old one.”

Jon senses he should praise her. He decides against it. His face remains expressionless as he turns to her. “When did you come in?”

“At six. I couldn’t sleep.”

He smiles around his cigarette. “I know the feeling.” He shrugs out of his coat and hands it over, and Daenerys grabs it with relief on her face. “Do you want a drink?”

“It’s seven,” Daenerys says.

“Does that mean no?” Jon walks over and pours himself a glass of whisky. When he looks back at her, she still stands at attention. “This can’t happen again,” he says.

“It won’t,” Daenerys says with certainty.

“Get a new pair of stockings before the others arrive. If I find Theon at your desk, I’ll hold you responsible.”

Daenerys smiles a little. “He’s not all bad,” she says. “Thank you, Mr Snow.” She slips out of his office and closes the door behind.

Jon slumps down in one of the armchairs. He sips his drink and looks at the sofa. The seats are dipped from where Daenerys has been sitting. He hesitates, but then reaches over and places his hand flat on the cushion. The fabric is warm. He closes his eyes, sighs, and swears to make all secretaries wear pantyhose from now on.

* * *

Jon can’t concentrate. He reads the notes. He approves some drawings. He goes to a meeting and sells an ad campaign targeted at housewives. Miss Tyrell congratulates him on closing the deal, and he somberly accepts the praise. But his mind is elsewhere.

Jon sits at his desk. He watches the sofa. He tries to recall how Daenerys sat - was her right leg up or down, what was the colour of her garter belt, which hand did the stocking dangle from? He’s not certain why it’s important, but it is. He’s tempted to buzz her and ask. His finger lingers on the intercom when Daenerys’ voice crackles through the speaker:

“Mr Lannister, Mr Greyjoy, and Mr Waters here to see you.”

Jon lifts his finger off the button. He waits a few seconds. He calls: “Send them in,” and the door swings open.

Tyrion Lannister, tipsy. Theon Greyjoy, sober. Gendry Waters, sturdy and strong and young. Jon knows he can’t despise someone for their age. He forces himself not to frown. “I wasn’t aware that I called a meeting,” he says as he watches them settle into his office.

Tyrion is at the liquor cabinet. Gendry pulls out a box of cigarettes with a quizzical look and, once Jon nods, lights one. It’s Theon who speaks: “We called it.”

“What’s the business?”

“Sam.” Gendry takes a seat in an armchair whilst Theon moves to the sofa. Jon waves for him to stand.

“A client spilled vodka on there,” he says, “grab a chair.”

“We bring a proposal,” Tyrion says. He dishes out drinks like a bartender, starting with Jon who gets his fourth glass of Canadian Club that day.

Jon scoffs. “Has he sent you all here to plead his case?”

“I’d fight for my own wages before defending someone else’s,” Tyrion assures him.

“So he did mention it?”

Tyrion doesn’t comment. He leans against the windowsill with a martini and a wry smile. “It’s official - he is to be married.”

Jon nestles back in his seat. “Are we sending our congratulations or condolences?”

“Both,” Theon grins.

Gendry blows out smoke. He’s in a green suit. It sits tight over his chest. “We’re taking him out for drinks after work, starting at P.J. Clarke’s. We’d like for you to come.” He looks at Jon with an honest expression. “It would mean a lot to him.”

Jon swirls his whisky around the glass. “Isn’t that a place for college kids?”

“No matter,” Theon says. He sits down on the sill next to Tyrion. “Everyone will be so drunk they won’t notice you’re forty.”

“I’m not forty,” Jon says, and Tyrion and Gendry feign interest in the floor as Theon grows red, “and get off the window.”

As Theon shuffles to his feet, Tyrion walks up to his desk. “Jon,” he says, “you know Sam admires you. Consider it a goodwill gesture.”

“The same kind he showed me with Gilly?”

“She wasn’t a good secretary. I’d say he did you a favour.”

Jon sighs. He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead. “We still need to finish the radio ad.”

“Mr Baelish signed it off this morning.”

“Petyr did?” Jon looks at Tyrion aghast. “He never signs off on anything.”

“He liked the work,” Tyrion shrugs and he quickly continues: “Don’t ask me about the campaign for the pet food company - they loved it, and they want us to go ahead.”

“I’ve got a second meeting with the Boltons about their kitchen knives,” Theon says, his face still warm.

Jon looks around at them. “Since when have you all suddenly started working?”

“No more excuses,” Tyrion says and pats Jon’s desk. “Come at five. I’ll buy you a drink. We won’t be at Clarke’s all night.” He lowers his voice and leans in. “I know some very sweet girls in Times Square.”

Jon doesn’t bat an eye, but he can’t help but glance toward the sofa. His mind buzzes with images of pale legs, flushed skin, sheen stockings. He wonders if any of Tyrion’s women have silver hair. “I’m not promising anything,” he finally says and points toward the door. As the men make their way out, he adds: “Theon, you can stay.”

Theon looks surprised. As Tyrion closes the door behind them, he sends him a sorry look. “Look, I apologise for the age-thing,” he says and turns to Jon, “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

Jon swirls his whisky around his glass. “Did your father used to own a resort?” he asks.

Theon is caught off-guard. He stammers: “Yes,” and blinks.

“By the sea?”

“My grandfather was a fisherman,” Theon says. He looks like he wants to approach. He remains by the door. “He never spent a single paycheque. My father used his inheritance on building a business.”

“You’re not fond of hotels?” Jon asks and watches Theon wince.

“When my father passed away, my uncle took over. I could go back, I suppose. I prefer the city.” He looks Jon in the eyes. His face is twitching. “Did my uncle call or something?”

“Better,” Jon says, “the Martells did.”

Theon’s eyes grow wide. “Are you serious?”

Jon holds up his hand. “A meeting has not taken place yet. There are no guarantees. If I get you on this account, will it complicate family matters?”

“No,” Theon says a bit too quickly. He walks up to Jon’s desk, his eyes brimming with excitement. “No,” he repeats, “it will not. I’m here to stay. You won’t regret it.” He holds out his hand.

Jon looks at it. He grabs his cigarettes instead. As he puts one between his lips, Theon lights it with a smile. He lets smoke seep from the corners of his mouth as he watches him. “Change your attitude,” he says, “and go find out everything you can about the Martells before Monday.”

“That means working over the weekend,” Theon realises. He quickly recovers: “Which I’m pleased to do.”

“Good.” Jon watches him on his way out. He sees Tyrion and Gendry still lingering outside. Even before the door shuts, he hears their excited chattering. He shakes his head, grabs a pen, and adds to his diary: PJ CLARKE’S, COLLEAGUES.

* * *

A woman seats herself next to Jon. She has black, curly hair and her eyes are too blue. She sips a Bloody Mary. Jon can’t smell the tomato juice over her heavy perfume. “Good evening,” she says and smiles, “I’m Bella.”

Jon has a drag of his cigarette. “I didn’t ask.”

“I bet you never have to.” She pulls at her shawl. It’s thin. He can see her cleavage through the fabric. “It’s Italian. It means beautiful.”

“Are you Italian?”

“Do you want me to be?” She turns in her seat and asks: “Are you with them?”

Jon looks over his shoulder. The room is small. There are only three tables. Just one is taken. This is not a place to linger; men come and go through the narrow hallway, always with a woman at their arm. Tonight is no different. Samwell is being ushered along by two blondes. Tyrion is insisting they’re twins. Jon can see they’re at least ten years apart.

Theon catches him looking. “I’ll pay for yours,” he grins. His eyes are watery. There are two empty bottles in front of him.

Jon turns back to Bella. “I’ve never met them.”

Bella laughs. “That’s a generous stranger, then.” Her eyes wander his body. Her nails tap at the counter. “I’ve been watching you,” she says. “I’ve seen all your little friends go, but you’ve just been sitting here.”

“Babysitting,” Jon says.

She laughs again. Jon dislikes it - she’s too friendly. When she scoots closer, he looks away. “You got me,” she says, “I’m not Italian. I grew up in Baltimore.”

“Do you miss it?” Jon asks.

“Why do you think I left?” She pulls out a cigarette and waits for Jon to light it. Then she has a drag. Smoke escapes her mouth. Her red lipstick has dried up into flakes. “Do you miss where you’re from?”

“I’m from here,” Jon says.

“No.” Bella smiles. She rests her chin in her hand as she licks her teeth. “You don’t have to tell me, but don’t try to lie. It is my business. Everyone who comes in here lies. No one is married, or a father, or a pervert. If you were to believe my clients, New York City is made up of Catholic schoolboys.”

“You should go back to Italy and tell the pope - he’ll be ecstatic,” Jon says.

“You’re funny, has anyone ever told you that?” Bella grabs an ashtray and puts it between them. She taps her smoke into it. “What’s your name?”

“Jon Snow,” Jon says, and they shake hands. Her palm is cold from the drink. She only slowly pulls away.

“Well, Mr Snow, you’re not the only one with friends. Have you met any of my girls? I’m sure they’d all be pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Jon raises his glass of whisky with a little smile. “I’ve got all the company I need.”

“Is that so?” Bella looks at him. Her brows are raised. “Who would’ve thought.” She waves at the bartender and points to Jon. “Whatever he wants is on me,” she says and slips off the stool with a wink. “It was nice to meet you, Mister.”

“You too, Bella.” Jon watches her walk away. Her behind swings in her tight, purple dress. Her fingernails grab a hold of Theon’s tie. She leans in and whispers something in his ear. The guy laughs. Then he gets up, hooks his arm around her waist, and they disappear down the hallway in the same direction as Samwell.

Jon looks at his drink. Bella’s Bloody Mary is still nestled next to his, the ice melting down the glass. He wonders if she’ll be back for it once she’s done. Then he puts a fiver under the ashtray, grabs his coat, and heads back out.

The evening air is cool. The lights of Times Square blink around him. Jon stands for a moment outside the unmarked door as he finishes his cigarette. He feels nostalgic, and he can’t tell why, but then he spots someone; there, on the other side of the street, is Daenerys.

Tonight, Daenerys reminds him of Brigitte Bardot in her short, blue striped dress, the skirt barely covering her thighs. She’s walking arm in arm with Margaery. She’s a Mary Quaint, he decides, in her yellow mod dress. He decides he prefers blue.

Perhaps it’s because he’s staring, but the women eventually stop and look at him. Jon wonders if he can slip away into the shadows. They wave at him. He begrudgingly waves back and prepares to take off, but they cross the street before he can gain momentum.

“Mr Snow!” Margaery chirps.

“Miss Tyrell,” Jon returns the greeting and then glances at Daenerys, “Miss Targaryen.”

Daenerys bites her lower lip. She’s wearing lipstick. It’s not flaky. “I didn’t, I mean, _we_ didn’t expect to run into you,” she says and pulls her skirt further down. Her eyes dart up at the building behind him.

Jon doesn’t have to look to know what kind of signs make up his backdrop. He clears his throat. “I’m just passing through.”

“Of course,” Margaery says, “so are we.” She looks at Daenerys who quickly nods.

“So are we,” she agrees.

“Mr Tarly is getting married,” Margaery says. “Some of the girls thought it’d be nice to throw a party for Gilly. We’re heading to Sardi’s.”

“Sardi’s?” Jon says and nods. “That’s quite the celebration.”

“Oh, it’s a bit dear, but she deserves it,” Margaery says.

Daenerys looks like she’s itching to partake in the talk. “You know how it is, Mr Snow,” she says, “a girl only gets married once.”

Jon thinks of his ex-wife. The look on Margaery’s face tells him she does too. She’s gone pale, but her smile never falters. She looks at Daenerys. “Dany, that’s so old-fashioned,” she laughs. She sends Jon a hesitant look.

Jon snubs out his cigarette against the wall. “Give her my wishes,” he says. He tries to smile at Daenerys. He ends up frowning instead. As the women titter off, he sees Margaery’s hands dig deep into Daenerys’ arm, and her lips press to her ear as she whispers furiously. After a few steps, Daenerys looks back at him, her face white. Jon pretends not to see as he strolls in the opposite direction toward the offices.

Jon is ashamed. He is angry. He is excited. He keeps lighting smokes, only to snub them out again after a few drags. He passes by a couple making out in an alley. The man has black curls. The girl is wearing blue. He watches them for a moment. He’s not sure why. When the man pulls up the girl’s skirt, revealing her garters, Jon feels a heat fill his face.

He hurries up. He’s soon at work. The place is desolate. The lights are off. He doesn’t turn them on as he storms to his office. He grabs his briefcase. He thinks of the Martells. Then he packs his tape recorder too. On his way out, he stops at Daenerys’ desk. It’s neat - the typewriter is covered, the papers are filed away. He desperately wants to find a fault, but his fingertips can not even discern a coffee stain on the wooden surface. He scoffs at himself. He makes a move to leave - but then he sees it.

Her wastebasket: crumbled papers, sweet wrappings, a single torn stocking.

Jon stares. He feels his heartbeat in his throat. He looks around. No one is watching him. He looks back at the trash. Before he can stop himself, he reaches down, grabs the stocking, and stuffs it away in the pocket of his coat. He can feel the dried line of nail varnish on it. For some reason, it makes him feel parched.

All the way home, Jon holds on to the fabric. He knows he’s going to get rid of it, there is no point in keeping it. The moment he steps into his apartment, he decides, he’s going to put it in the trash. Maybe throw it out of the window.

But when he walks inside, and the large, cold space opens up in front of him, he heads straight to the bedroom, drops it on the bedside table, and goes to the bathroom to shower. He turns the tap to the coldest setting possible. He stares up at the showerhead as water starts trickling out. He closes his eyes.

Jon imagines he’s at a bar. A silver beehive greets him. They have a drink. They share a smoke. On their way home, they stop in an alley. He pushes her against the wall. She begs him to touch her. His hand ravages her legs. He pushes up her skirt. He tears at her stockings. She says:

“Oh, Mr Snow, I’m so embarrassed,” and Jon replies:

“You should be,” and she says:

“Will you fire me?”, and he replies:

“Not if you kiss me,” so she does.

Jon grunts. His body is hard. The water is cold. His hand is aching. He shivers, and his knees buckle. He doesn’t feel clean. He dries himself off and goes to bed. The tape recorder is by his side. He watches the rolled up stocking as he turns it on. He speaks into the microphone:

“Why do people stay in the city?” He pauses. “Because it’s exciting. Anything can happen. You don’t have to travel across the states to get what you want. Forget resorts. What you want is in Detroit, Los Angeles, New York. It’s here. It’s pure. It’s dirty.” He pauses again. “It’s not about the destination - it’s about the company.” He turns off the recorder. He pushes it aside. He lies down and forces his eyes closed.

He doesn’t dream that night, but he does fantasise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, thank you for all your lovely comments on the last chapter! DragonandDirewolf and I are so happy you like this sweet Daenerys and grumpy Jon - we sure have fallen in love with them over the course of this story!
> 
> This chapter was fun to research - I even managed to dig up an old Playboy Bunny manual from the 60s. Made for some interesting reading. The club they're visiting doesn't exist anymore - but maybe that's good, Bessie can finally take a night off!
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter and art - if you did, comments are always much appreciated. Hope to see you next week for another dirty scene!


	3. A night to forget

The Martells remind Jon of Hollywood; Oberyn is like the Oscar, lean and golden and desired, and Ellaria is showing off a black sleeveless dress not unlike the one worn by Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She looks bored before sitting down at the table. Her eyes seek out of the grand oak room toward the bar.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Oberyn says as he shakes hands with them - Robert, Theon, and Jon - and he glances toward Ellaria, “we got distracted.”

The ashtrays are overflowing. Each man sits with an empty glass. Jon stops himself from checking the time. He knows it’s been over an hour. He clears his throat, but Theon speaks first:

“There are many sights in New York City. It can get overwhelming.”

“You don’t say,” Ellaria replies, and she looks Jon in the eyes as she pulls out a cigarette. He lights it and turns to Oberyn.

The man shakes his head. “I’ve given up,” he says.

“He wants to live until he’s a hundred.” Ellaria blows out smoke. Her lips are very red. They leave a mark on the cigarette.

Jon lights himself a smoke. “And you don’t?” he asks.

She smiles. “You know how it is, Mr Snow - once a woman is past forty, she might as well be dead. No one pays her any heed.”

“You needn’t worry about that for another twenty years,” Jon replies.

Ellaria laughs, and Oberyn smirks. “He knows his way with words.” He snaps down a waiter. “Another round for these gentlemen, an Old Fashioned for me, and a Mint Julep for the lady.” He turns back to Jon. His dark eyes glimmer. “Are you married, Jon?”

Jon glances toward Robert. The research on the Martells offered little in the way of culture. He could lie and risk running the city down for someone to play his wife. He admits: “I am divorced.”

“Refreshing.” Oberyn looks pleased. “I believe in trying everything once. That’s why I want to live for as long as I can. I want to see them put a man on the moon. Hell, _I_ want to be that man!” He chuckles, and Theon eagerly says:

“I can see that happening.”

Oberyn stops laughing. He shakes his head. “A silly man’s dream. Reaching for the stars. You want to talk about the sights of the city? The best ones walk on two legs.” He looks back at Ellaria with a wry smile.

As the waiter arrives, Robert grabs his wine off the tray with a grunt. “A man after my own heart,” he says.

Jon leans back as a glass of whisky is placed in front of him. He’s eyeing Oberyn. “Should we order dinner?” he asks.

Oberyn shakes his head. “I don’t want to keep you all on edge. The truth is, I’m not sure what you offer is what we’re looking for.” He hesitates as he watches Jon and smiles: “In advertisement, anyway.”

Jon rolls his cigarette between his fingertips. “You haven’t heard what we offer.”

“It’s like we discussed,” Robert interjects, “with the right strategy, your business’ revenue could double.”

“Money is not an issue.” Ellaria taps ash into the tray and gestures for the waiter to empty it. “We could stick with our resorts and still keep our grandchildren’s children in school.”

“What’s your passion?” Theon asks.

Oberyn throws out his hands. “Life! I told you - I want to do everything once.”

“But you want to do it right,” Jon points out. He looks between the Martells. Their dark eyes are curious and challenging all at once. Theon’s shoulder rubs to his side. Robert is waiting for him to go on. The pressure mounts in Jon’s throat, and it’s released in a smile - he loves a hard sell.

Jon speaks: “If you want a drink, you can buy the bottles and make it cheap at home. But you don’t want cheap. You want an experience - you want to sit at a nice bar, with a beautiful girl by your side, and you want to watch a bartender mix your order with confidence.”

“You do hate pouring your own martinis,” Ellaria says to Oberyn, but he barely moves. His arm slips around her shoulders. He’s watching Jon intensely.

Jon continues: “You want to swim? Don’t go to a pool - go to the ocean. You want a steak? Don’t buy those ready meals - go to Keens. If you’re only trying things once, don’t choose the easy option. It’s not the whole experience. It’s not even a taste.” Jon has a drag of his cigarette. He blows smoke out of the sides of his lips as he leans back in his seat. “You don’t want your city hotels to be the cheap choice. You want them to be _the_ choice.”

“How do you know what I want?” Oberyn asks.

Jon snubs out his smoke. “I don’t,” he admits, “but that’s not my job. My job is to tell people what they want and make them believe it. Right now, people see your ads, and all they know is that your hotels are not resorts.”

“They’re not,” Oberyn says.

“Exactly. But they shouldn’t even be thinking about resorts. Your brother already built that empire - no one can take that away. You want people to see your ad and know that the Martell hotel is the only place to stay in the city. All other hotels are secondary.”

Oberyn shrugs. “But how do we do that?”

Jon smiles. He holds up his glass. “Sign us on, and I’ll tell you,” he says.

Oberyn looks perplexed, but his lips are pulling upwards. Ellaria laughs. “You’re too slick,” she says, but she too raises her glass.

Robert wipes his mouth off in a napkin. The wine stains the white fabric. “Jon is our example of what best is,” he jests.

Ellaria sips her drink. “I can tell.” Her eyes roam Jon’s face. “We want you on the account.”

Jon clears his throat and empties his glass. “I’ll assemble a great team. You’ve met Theon here,” Jon turns to Theon who glows at being named, “who’ll be in charge of the strategy, and we’ve got a good man in creative, Tyrion Lannister.”

Oberyn’s voice is sharp: “No Lannisters.”

The table falls quiet. Jon blinks and looks at Robert.

Robert has gone red. He leans close to Oberyn as he speaks. “I can assure you,” he says, “that no one from the Lannister family will work on your account.”

“I will need that in writing.”

“You’ll have that and my word,” Robert says.

Jon looks confused, but he doesn’t ask. As Oberyn turns back to him, he merely nods and forces a smile. “Of course. We’ve got a lot of good men in creative. We’ll find someone suitable.”

“Great.” Oberyn finishes his drink and sighs. He claps his hands together. “So - ready to show me some of the city’s finest two-legged attractions? And remember, Jon - I want to try _everything._ ”

* * *

Jon can barely walk. The empty hallway moves around him. He pauses behind the glass doors to the office. He stares at his reflection. His hair is uncombed. He’s lost his tie. He thinks Oberyn took it. He can’t recall where he left his coat. There is no one in reception. He pushes at the handle, walks past the empty desk, and follows the sound of the cleaner’s vacuum. It whirls. His head spins. The lamps are all dimmed. He focuses on the single bright spot of light ahead.

Daenerys is by her desk. She stands up as he approaches. “Mr Snow,” she says. Her voice is surprised.

Jon gives her a hat he’s no longer wearing. He stares at his empty hand. Then he shrugs out of his suit jacket and gives her that instead. “Good morning,” he says.

“It’s almost midnight.” Daenerys takes his jacket. “Are you okay?”

Jon looks at his watch. The hands seem to move backwards. “Look at this,” he says and shows it to her. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”

“I think it’s broken.”

Jon looks at it again. It’s stopped. The glass is cracked. “Oh,” he mutters. He doesn’t remember when that happened. Daenerys takes him by the arm. He wants to tell her off - a secretary should not touch her boss. But she smells of peaches. Jon likes peaches. He feels parched. He imagines taking a big bite out of the juicy fruit.

“Do you want to lie down?” Daenerys asks.

“I left my things in the office,” Jon says.

Daenerys leads him over the threshold and into an armchair. Then she leaves the room. Jon is not sure how long she’s gone for, but when she returns, she hands him a filled glass. The liquid fizzes. He looks into it.

“Is it champagne?” he asks.

She chuckles. “Drink,” she says. “It’ll clear your head.”

Jon drinks. It tastes bitter. Alka-seltzer. He wrenches his tongue around his mouth as he watches Daenerys. She’s pattering around his office collecting things: his briefcase, the recorder, some files. She stops and looks at them.

“How did it go?” she asks. When she puts the papers into his folder, he notices that they’re the research done on the Martells.

Jon raises his glass as if in a cheer. “They’re signing on.” His voice sounds tired and hoarse, but he’s smiling.

Daenerys beams at him. “Really? Congratulations.”

“It’s just business as usual,” Jon says, but the corners of his lips dig deeper. He likes the way his secretary looks at him; with admiration. It’s how every man wants to be seen. Jon senses that nothing else matters. There’s just her, and him, and now she moves toward him, and her hands close at his, and she pulls him to his feet, and her lips part. He wants to kiss her.

Daenerys says: “I called for a taxi.”

“I don’t want to go home,” Jon says. His hands slip across her arms. She’s in a red dress. Her heels barely make her taller. Her nose hovers his neck. When his hands close at her waist, he thinks that he’d be strong enough to carry her. She looks small before him.

Daenerys places her hands on top of his. Her cheeks are pink. She drags his fingers off her body and holds them gently. “You helped me when I was lost in the city,” she says, “so now I’ll help you, Mr Snow.”

“I’m not lost,” Jon says.

“Let’s keep it that way,” Daenerys replies.

They walk together - Daenerys holds his briefcase, Jon holds his jacket. They go down in the elevator. They walk out onto the street. It smells of sweat and dirt and alcohol. Or, Jon realises, maybe that’s just him. When a car stops, he slips onto the backseat. The driver turns to look at him.

“Is he drunk?” he asks.

“Who?” Jon replies.

“He’ll be fine,” Daenerys insists.

The driver shakes his head. “He’ll get sick. I don’t clean sick.”

“He’ll be fine,” Daenerys repeats.

Jon pulls out his wallet. He withdraws a wad of money. “I can pay,” he says.

The driver reaches over the seat, but Daenerys slips in and closes her hand around the cash. “Don’t go waving your money about like that,” she scolds Jon. She sighs, but then she pulls the door shut. She looks at the driver. “I’ll go with him. He won’t be sick.” She pushes Jon’s hand back into his pocket and holds it there, the notes out of sight.

The driver grunts. “Suit yourself.”

Jon looks out of the window. He tries to recall the evening: where did he go, what did he do? He hates entertaining clients. It shouldn’t be his job anymore. He wants to close the deal, and then move on to the next account. He doesn’t want to sit in a corner booth between Robert and Theon as they pay for drinks and girls.

Daenerys grabs at his arm. “Are you okay?” she asks.

Jon looks at her. “What?” She has golden earrings. They dangle from her lobes. Jon wants to feel the cool metal against his lips as he whispers into her ears.

“You’re very quiet.” Daenerys lowers her voice: “If you’re going to be sick, please tell me.” Her eyes dart between him and the driver.

Jon leans his head against the backrest. The whirring in his head is easing. “Why were you at the office so late?” he asks.

Daenerys blinks. She opens her mouth to speak, but the words only slowly come out. “I was working,” she says.

“We don’t pay for overtime.”

“I took a long lunch,” Daenerys says, “I was making up for it.”

“Past midnight?” Jon checks his watch. It’s still broken. He looks at her with his brows furrowed. “Were you waiting for me?”

Daenerys goes bright pink. “Mr Snow, I didn’t know you were coming back in.”

“Neither did I,” Jon replies, and they both smile a little. He pats his pockets for a cigarette. Daenerys pulls one out of her own bag, places it between his lips, and lights it. He can feel the heat of the flame. He almost doesn’t want her to pull away. He has a drag. “The Martells are very free spirited,” he says. “Maybe Theon was right. I’m getting old.”

“Did he say that?”

Jon thinks back to his comment in the office. He wonders if he looks forty. “Something like that.”

“With age comes wisdom.”

“And dementia,” Jon says, “my father’s got that. There’s not much wisdom left.”

The cab pulls aside. “We’re here,” the driver says.

Daenerys counts Jon’s money. She pays the man in exact change. “I told you he wasn’t going to be sick,” she says in a huff before urging Jon with her. As the cab takes off, Jon sighs:

“No tip? He’ll tell his friends. No one will ever drive me again.”

“Seems like you can afford a chauffeur,” Daenerys notes as she stares up the tall building. She looks at Jon with pause. “Do you really live here?”

The whitewashed stone and grand entrance resemble a hotel. Jon throws his arms out. “I own the building,” he jokes. The look on Daenerys’ face tells him that she believes him. “I’m on the top floor.”

“Can you walk?”

Jon throws his cigarette aside and loops his arm around her shoulders. “With you? Anywhere.”

Daenerys shakes her head, but she supports him all the way up in the elevator. As they reach the floor, she patiently watches him as he fishes a set of keys out of his suit jacket and tries to hit the lock. After a few attempts, she guides his hand, and the door slips open. They step into a large, dark room.

“Oh my God,” Daenerys breathes.

At first, Jon thinks she’s impressed with his place. Then he spots Ghost; large and white, and visible through the darkness. His dog trudges toward the door, his red eyes focused on Daenerys. “He’s friendly,” Jon assures her. “Do you want a drink?” He drops his things on the floor and stumbles into the dark. He knows where the liquor cabinet is. He steps over his armchair on the way.

“No thank you, and neither do you,” Daenerys says. He can hear her fumbling. “Where’s the light?”

“Come over here.” Jon leans against the cabinet, his eyes scouring the shadows for Daenerys. She’s still at the door, watching his dog. He waves him aside with irritation: “Go, Ghost, go.” Ghost sniffs the air before slippering off to the kitchen. He can hear him settle somewhere by the cabinets.

“That’s a big dog,” Daenerys says.

“Come over here,” Jon asks again. The grand glass windows leading to the balcony offer a hint of moonlight. It’s just enough for him to make out her shape. Her hips dance when she walks. Her bosom lifts. Her silver hair falls down her back. He wants his hands to fall with it, pull at her zipper, see the dress slip around her naked form.

Daenerys stops in front of him. “You need to go to bed,” she says.

“Do you want to come with?” Jon asks. He slips his hands around her waist. He pulls her close. The scent of peaches fills his nose. He can feel her heartbeat. It’s quickening in her chest. When he lets his hands drag around to the small of her back, he hears her gasp. “I’ve had a hard day at work.”

“Nonsense, you’ve had a fun day out,” Daenerys corrects him. He expects her voice to be sharp. It’s soft. Her hands grab at his shirt, and she asks: “Where’s your bedroom?”

“Kiss me,” Jon says.

“I’m going to get you to bed.”

“Will you kiss me then?”

“Mr Snow,” Daenerys looks up into his eyes, “you’re drunk. It’ll all seem very different tomorrow.”

“What will?” he asks before nodding toward the corner. “It’s around there. The bedroom.”

Daenerys takes a step to the side, and Jon follows. His hands are still on her back. It’s a clumsy walk - she steps backwards, he steps forwards. Their toes brush. Their bodies bump. When they almost fall over the doorstep, Daenerys laughs: “I feel like _I’m_ the drunk one.”

“Maybe you are,” Jon says. He’s pushed down onto the edge of his bed. The mattress groans under him. Daenerys’ fingers start unbuttoning his shirt. He waves her hands away. “You first.”

“I told you, Mr Snow - you’re going to bed.”

“And I told you - I want you to kiss me, _Miss Targaryen._ ”

Daenerys looks at him. He remembers that look - it’s the same she sent him the first time they met. Her hands were on his tie, and her lips were asking him to go home with her. It’s like she knows what he’s thinking. “I wish you had,” she says, “gone with me. Now it’s too late.”

“Are you seeing someone?”

“You’re my boss.”

“Doesn’t that mean you have to do what I say?” Jon holds out his hand.

Daenerys looks at it. She looks at him. Then, slowly, she steps out of her heels, takes a hold of his shoulders, and uses the weight of her body to roll him back onto the bed. She’s trembling. Her breath is warm.

Jon is hardening. His eyes are closing. He needs to go to sleep. He wants to stay awake. His head buzzes. “Kiss me,” he says again.

She does; her lips press to his. They’re soft. When they move across his mouth, they make a wet sound. It drives Jon mad:

He pushes his hands through her hair, pulls her closer, deepens the kiss. Her tongue meets his. He gains access to her mouth. He tastes her - coffee, cigarettes, strawberry gum. He craves it. The scent of peaches is overwhelming. He wants to drown in it.

Daenerys’ hands drag down his chest. She breaks the kiss with a gasp. “You’re hurt,” she says.

Jon peers up at her face. It’s white with shock. He glances down at her fingers. They’re hovering his scarred chest. “I was hurt,” he says, “now I’m okay.”

“What happened?” she asks. Her voice is heated, and breathless, and Jon wants to kiss her so hard that she can’t get air. He wants her to wriggle under him. He wants her to forget what it’s like not being fucked.

He draws in a deep breath. His head is hurting again. He wishes he finished the glass of water at work. “I was in Korea,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Daenerys replies. She sits up. She’s straddling his groin. The hemline of her red dress is resting on her thighs. He can see her garter belt. He finally knows that it’s pale pink. “I was envious when I saw where you live. Now I think you deserve it.”

“Do you pity me?” Jon asks.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she says. Her hands seek his belt. She slips it free of his trousers. Jon imagines that she continues - that her hand dips into his briefs, and closes around his cock, and that she strokes it, and makes him moan. He wonders what she feels like between her legs. He wonders if she’s wet. “You should sleep.”

“Not alone.” Jon grabs her by the wrists, and he flings her onto her back. The bed rocks. Daenerys gasps. His lips drag down her neck. He can taste her pulse. Her legs kick up around him. “Don’t you feel sorry for me? All alone in a big apartment.”

“You’re a dirty man, Mr Snow,” Daenerys gasps. She wrestles a hand free, and she grabs his chin with it. She brings his face back to hers as she looks into his eyes. “What happens in the morning?”

“Don’t you want to stick around and find out?” he asks.

Daenerys smiles a little. As she drags him into another kiss, Jon feels his body succumbing to hers. She’s warm, and willing. She easily rolls them over. He’s on his back. She hovers him. Her lips move against his skin. She’s breathing words to his ear. He can’t make sense of them. He’s speaking, and he’s silent, and he’s drunk, and he’s sober, and he’s hard, and he’s soft. He’s asleep.

* * *

He’s awake.

Jon blinks against the sharp light. He never pulled the curtains. The sun is making his face ruddy. He rolls over and buries his nose in his pillow. He expects to smell liquor. He smells peaches. The scent makes him sit up immediately.

“Daenerys?” He looks around the bedroom. It’s quiet. The large wardrobe is open. He recognises his shoes from yesterday - they’re neatly placed on the bottom, and his creased shirt has been hung on a hanger on the handle. His trousers are folded. They’re on the stool by the mirror.

Jon takes in a deep breath. His body aches. His fingers shiver. He reaches into the bedside table and withdraws a pack of smokes. He lights a cigarette. He wonders if he fantasised again. Every night is the same; he’s on top of her, the headboard of the bed slams to the wall, she whines, he grunts, every piece of fabric is torn, she can’t move and she doesn’t want to, he makes her soak the mattress.

Jon closes his eyes. He has a drag of the cigarette. He lets the smoke seep from his lips. He thinks about his night out. He remembers Oberyn’s fascination with Times Square. They all attended a burlesque performance. Ellaria was ecstatic. Robert commented: _She dresses like a lady but acts like a man._ He couldn’t tell if he liked it or not.

When did he get home? He looks around for his watch. It’s on top of his trousers. He grabs it. The glass is cracked. The hands are not moving. Daenerys’ voice sounds in his head: _I think it’s broken._

Alka-seltzer. Cab. Kissing. Bed. Jon feels sick. He holds his hand over his mouth as he stares down at the watch. She was here, he is sure of it. He looks around. He listens. He checks the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen - there is no sign of her. His heartbeat is quick. He stops in front of the liquor cabinet and stares at it. He stood there, he’s certain, and he held her. He didn’t want to let go. He wanted to have her - did she let him?

Jon’s head buzzes. Then it stops. Then it buzzes again. He turns on his heels. It’s the doorbell. He takes in a deep breath. He can’t fill his lungs with air. He runs his hands through his hair as he walks closer. He looks out of the peephole. Margaery looks back at him, her eyes patient. She buzzes again.

“Mr Snow, neither of us want to spend Saturday like this,” she says.

Jon opens the door. “Miss Tyrell,” he greets.

Margaery looks him up and down. “Is now a bad time?” she asks.

Jon looks down. He’s in his briefs. He sighs and leaves the door open for her as he heads to his bedroom. “Sorry, I just woke up,” he says. He grabs his robe. He looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes are red. His face is red. He snubs out his cigarette. The smoke makes him cough.

“Well, I’m not surprised - Mr Greyjoy told me it was quite the client dinner.”

“When did you talk to Theon?” Jon ties his robe as he walks back into the living room.

Margaery hands him a black bag she’s been holding. “That’s your tuxedo. You didn’t pick it up from the dry cleaner.”

“They called you?” Jon asks.

Margaery smiles. “I believe they thought it’d be more efficient. May I smoke?”

“Go ahead - do you want coffee?”

“Oh, I’m not staying.”

As Jon walks to the open kitchen, Margaery lights a cigarette. He places the bag over a chair, puts the kettle on, and looks back at her. “So you picked up Theon’s dry cleaning as well?”

Margaery laughs. “He called me this morning. He’s excited about you putting him on this account. He needed to tell someone.”

“I’m sorry he woke you. I’ll have a word with him.”

“Mr Snow, I can handle my own affairs,” she replies and blows out smoke.

Jon grabs a cup. “It went well,” he says, “though the Martells are a bit more modern than Robert expected.”

“I’ve heard about them. They make a lovely couple - and not just with each other.” Margaery smiles. “I’ve sent the cheque. That’s really what I came by to say.”

“Thank you.” Jon pours himself coffee and walks back to her. “I appreciate it.” He holds out his hand to shake hers, but she just looks at him with a peculiar glimpse to her eyes.

“Well,” she finally says, and she shakes his hand, “I should be on my way. My train is at noon, and I need to grab my things from home.”

“It’s already lunchtime?” Jon follows her to the door. He glances at his briefcase. It’s nestled against the coat hanger, his jacket on top. He remembers dropping it before leading Daenerys inside. He hears himself asking: “Did you hear from Miss Targaryen?”

Margaery blinks. “Why, did something happen?”

Jon makes sure not to move a muscle. “I picked up some files yesterday before heading home. She was still working at midnight.” He pauses but, as Margaery doesn’t speak, he adds: “It’s concerning. We can’t have her timecard be wrong.”

“Of course, Mr Snow, I’ll talk to her when I get back.” 

Jon waves her off. “Don’t worry about it. You’re away on holiday now, aren’t you? I’ll let her know on Monday.”

“It’s no bother,” Margaery assures him as she presses the elevator button. As the doors open with a ding, she gives him a chipper look. “We rent a flat together. I’ll see her when I get my suitcase. I’ll make sure she’ll be on her best behaviour whilst I’m away.” She slips into the elevator with a nod and disappears.

Jon feels his chest pull together. He can’t decide if he should go to work on Monday or book a flight to Europe. He walks back into his apartment, leans against the wall, and takes in a deep breath. He’s not the first boss to sleep with his secretary. He could have her move desks. He could have her fired. Men do it all the time. But he doesn’t want either.

Jon is growing hard. He wants to have her. He wants to have her over his desk. He wants her to look back at him with the same admiration she looked at him yesterday. He’s not sure why he remembers it, but he does; the way she smiled when she congratulated him.

Jon’s Adam’s apple jumps as he swallows. He picks up his phone, dials the number from memory, and waits.

Ygritte’s voice is tired: “Hello, Snow residence.”

Jon scoffs. “So you still use my name?”

“Good morning to you too.” She sighs. “I’m assuming it’s morning for you. I can hear you’ve been drinking.”

“I’ve sent the cheque.”

“Good.” Ygritte pauses. “You don’t have to call me every month.”

“You’re meant to be out of the house by now. It was all agreed in the divorce.” Jon settles on the edge of his sofa. He buries his hand in his hair. “You get your allowance, I get my house.”

“What do you want to live outside the city for, anyway?” Her voice drawls. Jon imagines she’s been drinking too. “Did you finally get someone pregnant? You’re starting the perfect little family?”

“I want you out,” Jon repeats. His voice is heated. He can hear his ex-wife hesitating.

“I’ve got company,” she finally says. “Call me later.”

“Get your own house.” Jon hangs up. He rubs his face. He sighs. He wonders if Daenerys wants a perfect little family. He wonders if he’s just ruined her dreams of one. He reminds himself; she’s from Milwaukee, the big city scares her, she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Perhaps he took advantage. Perhaps they need to talk.

* * *

Monday morning. The walk from the entrance to his office is long. Jon stares at Daenerys’ desk the whole way. He walks at a normal pace, but he feels like he’s not getting closer. She looks up and meets his eyes. She smiles. She stands.

“Good morning, Mr Snow,” she says and takes his hat and coat. “Would you like some coffee?”

Jon stares at her. “Sure,” he says.

Daenerys nods and hangs up his stuff before following him into the office. He sits down at his desk without a word as she chirps: “Congratulations on the Martell account. Everyone’s very excited about it.” She pulls out a little notebook and reads: “You’ve got a meeting with Mr Greyjoy in half an hour about the strategy. Mr Baratheon - that’s Mr Robert Baratheon - wants to see you for lunch at noon. You’re booked in at Keens Steakhouse.” She stops and smiles: “Let me get you that coffee.”

“Miss,” Jon says, and Daenerys turns on the threshold. The looks she sends him is pure. It makes his stomach twist. His mouth is parched. He clears his throat. “Friday night, I came to gather some things from my office,” he starts but he can’t continue. He watches her.

Daenerys’ face remains friendly. She doesn’t even blink. “Of course - I spoke with Miss Tyrell. I didn’t realise I would cause any trouble by staying behind. It won’t happen again, Mr Snow, I am dreadfully sorry.”

“I’m afraid I might have left the bar a drink too late,” Jon says. He doesn’t want to say it out loud - he was drunk, and he was needy. “I might have behaved out of character.”

Daenerys still smiles. “Please, Mr Snow, this is your office. I’m here to assist you, not judge you.”

“Miss, I think you misunderstand.”

“Mr Snow.” Daenerys’ voice is chipper, but clear. She looks him in the eyes. “I am not sure what you’re alluding to, but I saw you off at midnight after we discussed the Martell account. I have organised your research as requested. Please be assured that I shall not stay late again unless asked.” She waits. “Would you still like coffee?”

Jon’s head is whirring. He can’t tell reality from fantasy anymore. He thinks back; he gets in a cab. He’s alone. He overpays the driver. He goes to bed. Perhaps; he gets in a cab. He’s with a blonde girl. They fuck all night. She leaves before sunrise.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says and rubs his face. His skin is tingling. He needs to stop drinking. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Coffee it is,” Daenerys says and walks out of the office. But as she closes the door, Jon’s gaze slips to her legs - and he swallows.

She’s wearing two different stockings. The colour difference between them is almost indistinguishable, but Jon knows, because one stocking has a rip, and dried nail varnish still clings on to the edge of the tear.

He had it on his bedside table. Now she’s wearing it. The door closes. Jon leans back in his seat. He feels parched. He heads to the liquor cabinet and pours himself a glass of Canadian Club. He downs half of it. Then he sits on the sofa, closes his eyes, and tries to remember every second of Friday night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your lovely comments and feedback on the first two chapters - it's been a joy to read! I'm so happy to be posting this chapter as things have started heating up a bit more. Hopefully you all like the direction this is going!
> 
> Please let us know what you think of the story so far, and we hope you'll be back next Sunday for another update!


	4. Hands on punishment

Jon’s hand slips between Daenerys’ legs. Her stockings are cool. Her skin is warm. Her sex is wet - he can feel it through the fabric of her briefs. They’re frilly. When he buries his nose into her heat, the lace tickles his moustache. Her breathing deepens. Her body arches. Her nails sink into his hair. She moans:

“Oh, Mr Snow, I’m so sorry to bother you,” and he replies:

“Don’t be silly, Miss - it’s my pleasure,” and she says:

“Mr Snow, the Martells are here,” and he looks up at her.

The light from the ceiling lamp is sharp. It leaves Daenerys’ face in shadow. Only a glimmer in her violet eyes stand out. Her brows are furrowed, and her lips are pouted. She appears impatient. “Mr Snow,” she says, and her voice is filled with restrained politeness, “I’m so sorry to wake you, but you’re late for the meeting. Mr Baratheon sent me to get you.”

Jon rubs his eyes and prods himself up onto his elbows. He’s stretched out across the sofa in his office. His shirt is creased. His tie is loose. When he smacks his lips, he can taste himself - cigarettes and old coffee. It’s not pleasant.

Daenerys pushes a glass under his nose. It’s fizzing. “I’m really sorry,” she says.

“You will be if you keep saying that.” Jon feels a headache coming. He downs the bitter water with a grimace. “Don’t they make them with taste?”

“Maybe for kids?” Daenerys takes the glass back and watches him as he sits up, but she doesn’t leave. “Mr Baratheon said immediately,” she says.

“Hold on.” Jon rubs his eyes again, then tightens the knot of his tie. He sends her a tired look. “Did you say there’s a meeting?”

“They’re in the conference room - Mr Martell, Mrs Martell, Mr Baratheon, and Mr Greyjoy. I’m to get Mr Waters too, if you think he’d be good on the account.” Daenerys pauses. She looks guilty when she adds: “At once.”

“You didn’t mention any of this in the morning.”

“The meeting got moved.”

“When?”

Daenerys bites her lip. “Last Wednesday. Oh, Mr Snow, I’m really-”

Jon interrupts her with a wave: “I can’t believe this.” He stands up. He runs his hands through his hair, combing down the curls. He looks around the office. He forgets what he needs. He can’t recall his pitch. When he looks at Daenerys, his stomach twists - the guilt on her face makes the situation worse. “You’ve put me in a very bad position,” he says. He wants to say it calmly. The words seem to hit her like a whip.

Daenerys flushes, and she eyes the floor. Still, she steps forward to hand him a file. “It’s all in here, Mr Snow. I’ll get Mr Waters.”

“Don’t - there’s no need to catch two men unprepared,” Jon says. He grabs his suit jacket off the armchair and pulls it on. He watches her - the way she stands, nervously holding the door, her eyes jumping between him and the floor. He wants to wrap her hair around his hand, kiss her breathless, and sneer his thoughts into her ear. Instead, he brushes past her, his mind blank and his eyes desperately seeking sight of the Martells.

The conference room is bursting with laughter and the smell of liquor. The moment Jon steps inside, Robert’s ruddy face meets him with a grin: “There he is, man of the hour!” He shakes Jon’s hand as if to greet him. He squeezes hard. Jon knows it’s a warning.

“Mr Martell, Mrs Martell,” Jon says as he turns to the couple. “I’m sorry for being late.”

Oberyn is in a skinny, white suit that makes his eyes look as black as ink. As Jon shakes his hand, he smirks. “All is forgiven,” he says, “perhaps you’re still feeling the effects of the last meeting? Someone was a bit unsteady on their legs when they left the bar.”

Jon flushes, but his smile doesn’t falter. “I thought New Yorkers knew how to celebrate - I was mistaken. You brought the party to the city.”

Ellaria chuckles. “It’s all about the company.“ When Jon shakes her hand, she holds onto his palm for a few seconds longer than necessary. Her fingers are heavy with rings. The cool metal makes Jon shiver.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it - I believe _good company_ is exactly the strategy you mentioned in the brief,” Jon says and clears his throat. He sits down opposite of them as he opens his file. Daenerys has rearranged it. He stares at the first page with unfamiliarity.

Theon watches him for a second before leaning in over the table. “As Jon was saying,” he starts, “you want to focus on your core group. Right now, that’s businessmen staying overnight while closing deals. They have the money to afford the luxury you offer. What they don’t have is the comfort of good company.”

“If we offered company, we’d be on Times Square,” Ellaria says before mumbling to Oberyn: “Not that I’d disagree with that. Seems to be the most entertaining part of town.”

“Of course we’re not going to suggest anything unseemly,” Robert interjects, and he sends Jon a hard look.

Jon agrees: “Of course not,” and he shuffles his papers about. He can’t find his notes. He tries to remember what he spoke about on the recorder. Excitement. Dirt. Relief. It sounds like a peep show. He glances up. The Martells are watching him patiently. There’s a slight smirk on Oberyn’s lips. Jon closes the file. He takes in a deep breath. He smiles. “Company is more than a glamorous date, or a beer with a good friend, or even having your family over for Thanksgiving. It’s about where you are.”

“People are already here,” Ellaria says. She points to Theon. “It's like he said - we’re aiming for businessmen. They don’t get to pick their destination.”

“But they get to pick their hotel.” Jon pushes his papers aside. Even looking at them makes his heartbeat quicken. He’s unprepared. He’s searching for words. He wants Oberyn to stop eyeing him like a prey to be hunted down. He closes his hands into fists under the table. His face remains neutral. “Your customers won’t be lonely, because your hotels are the centre of excitement. I’ve visited - the dining is superb, the staff couldn’t be more helpful, and you offer entertainment every night across the chain.”

“So do other hotels,” Oberyn says and leans back in his seat.

This time, the smile on Jon’s lips is real. “No - all other hotels offer New York. Look in the paper - they’re selling the Statue of Liberty. You’re selling an experience.” He looks at Theon.

Theon scrambles to his feet. He walks to the presentation board, grabs the white canvas, and turns it to show to the room. In bold letters it says: RELAX - IT’S THE MARTELL, and beneath is a drawing of three people on a sofa; a beautiful waitress with a tray of food, a bartender with a glass of wine, and, in between them, a businessman. His suit is creased. He’s missing a shoe. He’s smiling and looking pleased.

“It’s a series with different people - maid, bellboy, singer - but the same man,” Jon says, “and it works wherever. You don’t show the city - the city is irrelevant. You can just relax - you’re at The Martell. Good company is guaranteed.”

The room is quiet as Oberyn and Ellaria take in the art. Then, Oberyn points to the weary businessman and asks: “Was that you Friday night, Jon?” He looks toward him. There’s a tense pause. Jon can’t tell if he’s jesting or accusing him.

Ellaria finally breaks the silence. “He’s joking,” she says, and the smile on her lips is genuine, “and I like it. It’s provocative. It’s good.”

Theon lets go of a breath, and Robert claps his hands together. “You like it?” he repeats.

“It’s all we asked for,” Oberyn agrees, “some fun, some new ideas.” He nods at Jon. “What else have you got?”

Jon’s cheeks were tingling with excitement. Now, his headache returns. “What else?” he asks.

Oberyn shrugs. “We’d like more options than one.”

“Believe me, we’ve worked through other options,” Jon says, “and we only present the best.”

“You already told me your secret, Jon - your job is to tell me what I want.”

“I am - this is it,” Jon insists.

Theon agrees: “We’ve even tested it. We’ll show you the results.”

Ellaria waves dismissively as she gets up. “We believe you - we just want to see more.”

“Just to be sure this is what I really want,” Oberyn says. He holds out his hand. “Until next time?”

Jon only slowly shakes his hand. He’s puzzled. “We’ll see what we can do.” The words sound dry. He looks at Theon who is still standing by the canvas, stunned, so he walks around the table and gets the door. “Let me show you out,” he says.

Oberyn buttons up his suit jacket as he strolls across the threshold. “No hard feelings, I’m sure?” he says to Jon. “It’s like you said - if I only do it once, I want to do it right.”

“I hope my lateness this morning didn’t impact anything,” Jon says. He doesn’t want to bring it up. He can’t stop himself.

Oberyn chuckles. “I wish you were even later - watching your little girl squirm and jump when we walked in was rather entertaining.”

“My little girl?”

Oberyn glances back toward Daenerys’ desk. She looks up and sees them. When her eyes meet Oberyn’s, she bows her head and starts clicking away on her typewriter. “If we do decide on that ad,” he says, dragging his eyes off her narrow waistline, “I want her to model the maid. Can you imagine?”

“We can’t do false advertising,” Jon says. It’s meant to be a humorous remark. It comes out cold.

Ellaria grabs a hold of Oberyn’s arm as they walk into the elevator. “Well, Mr Snow,” she says, watching him as the doors close, “in that case, I suppose we should offer her a position. Good day.” She winks. The doors shut. The elevator goes down.

Jon turns on his heels, his cheeks burning, but before he can march back to his office, Robert grabs him by the shoulder. “A word?” he says.

Jon follows him to his office. The room is large and bright, and his desk is filled with family photos. They’re all dusty. The only clean one is a portrait of a slim, brown-haired lady that Jon recognises as Lyanna. He stares at it until Robert closes the door. “What the hell was that?” he asks.

“Why were you late?” Robert retorts. He scowls at Jon. His breath is heavy with spit and liquor. Jon realises that he was the only one drinking through the meeting. “They’re an important account. We’re billing them significantly. That can’t happen.”

“Why can a Lannister not do their business?” Jon asks curtly.

Robert’s brows sink down. When he scoffs, his moustache trembles. He’s on edge - he can shout, or he can collapse. As he turns and grabs his bottle of vodka, Jon knows he’s chosen the latter - his boss slumps into an armchair and pours two glasses of Smirnoff. “Have a seat,” he growls.

Jon shrugs out of his jacket. “They liked the idea, but they rejected it. If you know something, I need to be informed.”

“I said sit.” Robert shoves the drink into Jon’s hands. His voice is tired. As Jon settles in the opposite armchair, he rubs his forehead. His cheeks are going red. It’s not from drinking. "Tywin’s a nasty old man. He’s clever, but he lacks charm. I sometimes wonder if he’s German.”

“The war’s over,” Jon reminds him, “you need a new reference point.”

“He was failing, you know that. The whole Lannister family was facing ruin. Money doesn’t buy you manners. Their books were down every quarter.” Robert empties his glass. He pours another. “That’s why we merged. They would fund the business. I would represent it. If I’d not been so drunk, I would’ve seen right through their charades. Cersei was never meant to be part of the deal.”

Jon taps his glass impatiently. He tries not to raise his voice. “Robert,” he says, “I know the company’s past. If you want to lecture someone, get a younger guy in here.”

“You don’t know everything.” Robert leans forward. The chair groans under his weight. He grunts as he gives Jon a sorry look. “Tywin landed the Martells. He worked together with Doran Martell on making his resorts famous.”

“You _had_ the account?” Jon looks stumped. “This wasn’t in the archives.”

“Of course not - the one year the Lannisters made profit, a more promising resort chain sought them out. The Martells billed two million. They were promised three from a Mr Gardener. It was a conflict of interest. Greed won over loyalty.” Robert puts his glass down with a thud. He smacks his lips as he shakes his head. “The Gardeners went into liquidation a year later. Tywin lost both accounts.”

Jon looks into his drink. He can see his face reflected on the surface of the vodka. He looks pale. “It’s suicide.” He peers up at Robert. His boss doesn’t look him in the eyes. “They’ll never agree to a strategy. They signed us on so they can reject our every idea. It doesn’t matter how good our work is - they’ll never agree to it.”

“They still have to pay us.”

“It’s not about money!” Jon stands up. His heartbeat is in his throat. He doesn’t even realise that he’s thrown the glass - it shatters across the carpet.

Robert’s intercom buzzes. “Mr Baratheon?” His secretary’s voice trembles with age. “Mr Baratheon, is everything okay?”

“It’s all good, Nan!” Robert calls. He shakes his head. “See what I told you? Margaery gave me a woman so grey the whole staff calls her _Old Nan._ I want to swap with you.”

“Can you be serious for one minute?” Jon asks. He walks around the chair. Glass crunches under his shoes. He stops in front of the windows. It’s a rainy day. He stares down at the wet streets. “I’m going to spend months preparing campaigns for them, only to have them shelved the moment they leave the conference room. It’s a waste of time.”

“Then don’t put effort into it. Who cares?”

“I care!” Jon turns on his heels. He stares at Robert. Before his boss can say anything else, he holds up his hand. “I need to go for a walk.” He storms past him. He stomps down the line of the secretaries' desks. Daenerys looks up from her typewriter as he passes her. She follows him into his office.

“Mr Snow,” she starts.

Jon pulls on his coat. “Clear today’s schedule,” he says. “I won’t be back.”

“Did the meeting go okay?”

Jon glares at her. Everything about her annoys him, from her pretty silver head to her tiny heeled feet. He wants to fire her. He wants to fuck her. “You had no right to rearrange my file,” Jon says. His words are heated. His gestures when doing up his coat are curt. “You made a fool of me, and you made a fool of yourself - flirting with my clients is _inappropriate._ ”

“Mr Snow, I would never-” Daenerys starts, but she stops herself. Something is brimming in her eyes. Jon knows it to be defiance. Still, she straightens up, takes in a deep breath, and says: “Mr Snow, I apologise for causing any upset, but there is a kinder way to tell me.”

Jon opens his mouth to speak. The words get stuck. He should apologise. He still doesn’t know what happened between them. The pink in her cheeks could be anger, or shame, or both. A voice in his head says: you took advantage, you should behave. He decides to say: “I shouldn’t have to tell you at all.” His voice is rough. When he walks out, Daenerys doesn’t say another word.

* * *

Jon is warm with anger. He is hard with lust. He walks around the streets aimlessly. The rain soaks him. He thinks about Robert’s lies, and the Martells’ retaliation. He thinks about Oberyn’s lewd comments regarding his secretary. He thinks about Daenerys.

It’s in the middle of the day. The clouds make the sky look dark. The neon signs are not on. The doors are still open. He picks one at random, walks up the stairs to the third floor, and tries not to look the passing men in the eye. He pulls the brim of his hat down. He doesn’t lift it until he’s seated in a booth. The floor is dirty. Someone has scrawled their name into the seat. The air is heavy with sweat and Ajax. He lights a cigarette. He stares at the blank screen. Then, he withdraws some cash, pops it into the slot, and lets the movie play.

Jon leans in to peer at the screen. The woman wears a maid’s uniform. She poses for the viewer. Her blonde hair is in a bombshell. Her nipples are just visible through the sheer fabric of her apron. She bashes her eyelashes. She starts to undress. Jon doesn’t care. He doesn’t want her.

Jon closes his eyes. He sees Daenerys. She wears the uniform. The skirt is short. Her breasts press to the apron. She holds a feather duster. She tickles his nose with it. Then his chest. Then his crotch. She smiles:

“You’re a dirty man, Mr Snow,” and he replies:

“Can you keep me company?” and she says:

“That’s my job, Mr Snow,” and he asks:

“What’s your job?” and she leans in and whispers to his ear:

“Whatever you want.”

Jon’s hand aches. His breathing deepens. He remembers his fantasy from the morning; how he dipped between her legs, how he tasted her sex, how he felt her heat and wetness on his lips. He’s at a hotel. She’s on his bed. His tongue makes her squirm. They roughen up the duvet. He watches her change the bedding. Then they mess it up again. She gets ready to go back to work. He undresses her. She says:

“I have to service other rooms,” and he says:

“You only service me,” and she hikes up her skirt and pushes him down onto the bed and rides him to release.

Jon gasps. His hand wets. He buckles over in his seat. For a moment, he lives in his head. Then he sees his shoes, and the sticky floor, and he hears men shuffling by outside, and the movie has stopped, and the napkins don’t make him feel any less dirty, and he’s ashamed, and he’s relieved, and he’s angry.

The cigarette has almost burned down. Jon snubs it out against the wall and lights another. Someone knocks on his door.

“If you ain’t paying, you ain’t staying,” a gruff woman’s voice tells him.

Jon puts some more money into the slot. The movie starts over. He can hear the woman patter away. He leans back into the seat and blows out smoke. He eyes the ceiling. He wonders when he stopped being a boy and became a man. He decides it was when he arrived in Korea. He was shy. His commanding officer had photos of women in lingerie. He couldn’t look at them. They seem tame in comparison to where he is now. It makes him think: when did he stop being a man and become old?

Jon peers at the screen again. The bombshell looks back at him. He watches her, or she watches him. He’s not certain. It’s the same with Daenerys. She says, _Yes, Mr Snow,_ but then she stalks around in her ripped stolen stocking. It belongs to him, he knows. He took it. She shouldn’t have reclaimed it. She shouldn’t have worn it.

Jon is hard again. The movie stops. He adds more money, works his hand, tells himself that the eyes staring back at him are violet. He’s watching Daenerys. She’s watching him. He says:

“I make the rules,” but she just watches him. He repeats: “I’m in control,” but she just stares back. He grinds his teeth together. The cigarette falls from his lips. He steps on it, tucks himself away, and leaves in a hurry.

He’s throbbing. He’s furious. He walks around the city aimlessly. He gets soaked. He has a drink. The sky grows darker. By the time he returns to the office, it’s quiet. No one is by their desk. No one but Daenerys.

Jon stops the moment he spots her. He checks the time. His new watch is a Rolex. The hands on it move correctly. It’s past eight. He looks back up. Daenerys has spotted him. Her face is pale.

“Mr Snow,” she says and stands up.

Jon’s eyes narrow. He draws in a sharp breath. When he approaches, it’s with long steps. He doesn’t break eye-contact. “Your shift finished at five,” he says.

Daenerys swallows. He can see her neck growing pink. Her eyes shine with concern. “I didn’t think you’d be back today,” she says. She holds out her hand to take his hat.

Jon walks past her without giving it to her. “So that makes it okay? Doing it behind my back?”

“Of course not.”

Jon shrugs out of his coat. He throws it on the sofa and sits behind his desk. The Martell file is neatly presented. When he flicks through the paperwork, it’s all in his usual order.

Daenerys stops before him, her hands on her back, her whole body at attention. “I put it back the way it was before. I thought I was helping.” She bites her lip. “I realise I was not.”

“It’s too late.” Jon rolls up the work and dumps it in his wastebasket. When he looks back at Daenerys, she’s gawking. “They want something else,” he explains.

“But it was perfect.”

Jon smiles. He hasn’t smiled all day, not really. It feels relaxing. He stops himself. “It was perfect,” he agrees, his tone less curt, “but they want to see more. They’re the clients,” he continues quickly, stopping Daenerys from speaking. Her parted lips shut. “They decide.”

“Of course.” Daenerys still eyes the trash with shock.

Jon throbs. He scoots closer to his desk. “Why are you here? Did you not talk to Miss Tyrell?” He folds his hands on the table and gives her a hard stare. She squirms on the spot. He feels his neck grow sweaty. “When she went on holiday, she expected you to be on your best behaviour. So far, you’ve disappointed.”

“It’s really not all my fault,” Daenerys says, “if I could just explain-”

“I told you on the first day,” Jon reminds her, “that I don’t fight your battles. You moved from Milwaukee. You accepted the job. Now do it.”

Daenerys lips pull into a pout. It could be sweet, but he knows from her eyes that she’s furious. She remains polite. She says: “Yes, Mr Snow.”

Jon feels himself calm. He’s no longer watching her watching him. He’s regaining control. He can breathe a bit more freely. “I want you to finish up,” he says, “and go home.”

“Yes, Mr Snow.” Daenerys bows her head and walks out of his office.

Jon eyes her. He sees her behind - the way it fills out her dress - and he sees her legs - the way they brush against one another - and he sees her feet - the heels clacking across the floor. She pauses at her desk. She leans in over it. The fabric stretches further. Her buttocks perk up into the air, round and fleshy like a peach. He can almost smell the fruit. He wants to reach out and touch it.

Daenerys turns around. Jon looks away. She slowly enters his office again. “There is just one thing - there was an issue with a cheque. I’ve corrected it, but you need to sign it again.”

“Oh?” Jon mumbles. He’s stiff, and warm, and bothered. He presses his legs together. He grapples for a pen. When Daenerys places the cheque in front of him, he stares at her hand. Perfect nails. Soft fingers. He remembers how they felt on his chest that Friday night.

“I wanted to ask-”

Jon signs the cheque. “I told you to go home,” he says. He throbs. He scoots even closer to the desk. There is no more space between him and the counter. His knees bump. He wishes he was back in his private booth. Every movement from Daenerys, every sound - it sends shivers down his spine.

“Mr Snow,” she says.

“Good night, Miss Targaryen,” he replies.

Daenerys scoffs. She takes the cheque. “Good night,” she says, and she walks back to her desk, grabs her coat, and scurries off between the dark, empty desks.

Jon sinks back into his seat. His hands rest on his thighs. He waits until he hears the front door shut. Then he unzips his trousers.

* * *

“We’re in New York City. Right in the middle of the action. How do we know? There’s a window. It’s modelled after the Martell Gold Suite. The curtains are drawn. The Statue of Liberty is peeking in from outside.”

Jon empties his glass of whisky. He pushes it across his desk to Gendry who catches it and fills it at once. “Theon,” Jon says, looking at the man. “Where were you during the Martell meeting?”

Theon sends him an odd look. “I was there. With you.”

“So did you hear the part where I ridiculed other hotels for advertising the city’s attraction as their own?” Jon pauses for effect. As Theon starts going red, he adds: “I specifically mentioned the Statue of Liberty.”

Theon looks at the drawing. “Maybe that’s where I got it from.”

“Are you serious?” Gendry sighs and scowls at Theon, “I spent ages on that.”

Theon shrugs and turns to Jon. “So what now? We can’t do anything related to good company. We can’t mention their resorts. We can’t speak of the city. What’s left?”

Jon doesn’t know what to say. He’s tired. It’s a warm day. The fan in his office seems to blow hot air across his skin. He can’t concentrate. He has to say something clever. He sips his whisky. He stalls. His intercom buzzes.

Daenerys’ voice sounds: “A Mr Lys here to see you.”

Jon presses the button: “Send him in.” He waves for the men to stand. They gather their things. “Think of something. Anything. They’re coming in next week.”

“I thought this account would be exciting,” Theon mutters to Gendry as they walk out of the office. “So far it feels like a demotion.”

“I heard that,” Jon calls after him. He wipes sweat off his forehead. He pulls the fan closer. The door swings open again. Varys steps inside.

The man is bald, pale, and sombre to look at. Jon thinks he was born to be an accountant. When he speaks, his voice is so dry that it sounds like sand. “Jon, how lovely to see you again.”

Jon stands up and shakes his hand. “Please, have a seat.” He gestures to the armchair. “Can I get you a drink?”

“My visit will be brief,” Varys says and sits down. He opens his briefcase. He withdraws a single piece of paper and places it on Jon’s desk.

Jon recognises the numbers from his account. He reaches over, but grabs his whisky instead. He has a swig. “I thought we just reviewed my finances,” he says. “Are you here with a pleasant surprise?”

“You’re aware that I like to know everything that goes on. I trust in my years of service, you’ve found my suggestions to be agreeable.” Varys pulls out a pair of glasses. The frame on them is thick. His eyes seem to double in size behind the glass. When he looks at Jon, he reminds him of a judge. “In order to advise you to the best of my ability, there can be no secrets, no matter how unpleasant.”

“I don’t follow,” Jon says. He wrenches his tongue around his mouth. It feels like a dry piece of meat. He drinks some more of his whisky.

Varys smiles. “Jon, if you intend to assist your ex-wife in her endeavours, I find that to be admirable. Truly. But I need to know before you make any large withdrawals so I can monitor the cash flow between your accounts.”

Jon narrows his eyes. He leans a bit forward in his seat. “Varys - whatever you need to say, say it.”

Varys’ smile deepens. He turns the paper over and points to the number at the bottom of the page. Jon’s eyes cross the many amounts, one each month for Ygritte’s allowance as per their divorce agreement. Five-hundred dollars. Five-hundred dollars. Five-hundred dollars.

Jon grabs the paper. He peers at the last figure. He looks up at Varys. He says: “Five _thousand_ dollars?”

Varys doesn’t flinch. “I’ve obtained a copy of the cheque. It is legitimate, signed by yourself.”

“There is no way,” Jon starts, but Varys holds up a hand to stop him.

“However,” he continues, “there is one oddity. Miss Tyrell’s handwriting is very distinguishable. I did notice that the amount had been written out by someone else.” He lowers his hand. “Do you happen to know who that might be?”

Jon stares at him. Then he pushes the button on the intercom. When he speaks, his voice shivers with anger. “Miss Targaryen,” he says, and he can hear her move outside the door even before he’s done speaking, “come in here immediately.”

Daenerys opens the door and steps inside, her face pale with worry. She looks between Varys and Jon. “Yes, Mr Snow?”

Jon holds up the paper and points to the amount. His hands are trembling. His lips are becoming a thin line on his face. He’s sucking them in, trying to control his breathing. If he felt warm before, he’s now dripping sweat. “Do you remember preparing a cheque for this amount?”

Daenerys steps over, leans in, and looks at the paper. She then nods. “Yes, of course. You signed it last Wednesday.”

Jon drops the paper to the desk, aghast.

Varys picks it up with a pleasant smile. “I will be on my way,” he says and shakes Daenerys’ hand. “Lovely to meet you, dear. Jon - I will take care of the money movement.” He tips his hat, turns to the door, and walks out.

Jon waits for the door to shut. The moment it does, he jumps to his feet. “What the hell were you thinking?” he asks.

Daenerys looks shocked at his choice of words. “Mr Snow!” she says, “that’s highly inappropriate.”

“So is sending five grand to my ex-wife!” Jon storms around his desk. He’s not sure where he’s going. He goes to his liquor cabinet, then turns back to look at Daenerys. She’s watching him with unease. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried to!” Daenerys insists. She looks upset and annoyed all at once. Her hands wring at her front. “When you came back late, I told you there was an issue with the cheque.”

“The cheque was fine. It was for five-hundred dollars. It is always for five-hundred dollars.”

“Well, I didn’t know! When Mrs Snow called-”

“Don’t you dare call her that.” Jon’s cheeks are burning. “She is not my wife anymore.”

“She wanted to talk to you. You weren’t in the office. I had no way of reaching you.”

Jon feels his heartbeat in his throat. He remembers where he was - watching a blondie undress whilst masturbating. He sinks into his sofa. He lights a cigarette. His hands are still trembling. All the blood in him is rushing quickly. He can’t seem to calm down. “You should have told me she called. Do you not know your job?”

“I know my job, and I do it well,” Daenerys protests. Her voice has some heat to it. She steps over and stands in front of Jon. The hemline of her yellow dress reaches his nose. “She asked me all sorts of questions. She asked about the cheque. When I mentioned the amount, she said it was wrong.” Daenerys pauses to breathe in deeply. “I tried to tell you-”

“I didn’t look. I just signed it.”

“That’s not my fault,” Daenerys says stubbornly.

Jon glares up at her. “It is your job to make sure I look at what I sign.”

“It is not my job to be treated like a child,” Daenerys retorts.

Jon throws out his hands. “Then stop acting like one!”

“Or what?” Daenerys snaps. She glowers at him. “You’ll punish me like one, too? You’ll spank me?” As Jon’s hands turn to fists on his knees, she scoffs: “I dare you.”

"Don't try your luck," Jon warns her.

Daenerys leans in. She repeats: "I dare you."

Jon grabs her by the dress. He rips at the fabric and forces her down across his lap. When she falls, she yelps in surprise. Her body is light. Her skirt is short. He easily drags it up over her behind. Her buttocks greet him. Her knickers barely cover the flesh. “You need to change your attitude,” Jon grumbles around his cigarette, and before he knows of it, he lands three harsh slaps on her behind.

Daenerys’ legs kick into the air. One of her heels slips off as she gasps: “Mr Snow!”

Jon feels like he’s in one of his fantasies. His anger is turning into something else. He is hard. He is rough. With every blow he lands on her pale flesh, he wants to land one more. Her buttocks jiggle. The skin turns red. Daenerys wriggles, but she doesn’t fight to get up. He pulls at her pants. The fabric is wet with perspiration. He can feel sweat drip down his brows. The office is steaming. His hand aches. His fingertips are going numb. His spanking echoes in the room like a steady clapping. “Do you understand?” he asks.

“Mr Snow,” Daenerys says again, but it’s less scandalised. There’s something else to her voice - a faint hint of a moan. When she peers over her shoulder at him, her violet eyes glimmer. Her cheeks are pink. She’s embarrassed. She’s shocked. She’s excited.

Jon stares at her. His hand falls flat to her bare buttocks. He caresses the burning skin. “Miss Targaryen,” he replies. For a moment, neither of them move, their breathing heavy. Then, Jon realises:

This is not his fantasy. He has his secretary across his lap. He’s spanking her like a child. He’s making her small body rub across his hardened groin with every slap. Outside the door, there are people mulling about, doing their usual business.

He pulls his hands back. He says: “I’m sorry.” His voice is barely audible.

Daenerys shuffles to her feet. She pulls her skirt down and takes a step back from Jon. She’s unsteady on her feet. Her eyes seek the floor. She steps into her heel. Then, she clears her throat. “Anything else, Mr Snow?” she asks. Her hands rest on her buttocks.

Jon imagines they’re sore. He shakes his head. “No, Miss, that’ll be all.” He looks down at his lap. There’s a damp spot on his right knee from where she laid. He realises it must be from her sex. He looks back up and finds that she’s already left his office. The door shuts. He is alone.

Jon takes in a deep breath. He stands up. He makes a martini. He drinks it whilst watching the streets of Manhattan. He wonders what got over him. He likes it. He hates it. He needs to fuck Daenerys. He needs to apologise to Daenerys. He brushes the wet spot on his leg. He stops himself from tasting it. He turns on his heels, walks to the door, and opens it, drink still in hand.

“Miss Tagrayen,” he says. He looks at her desk. It’s empty.

Shae stomps past him. She sends him an odd look. “Are you looking for Daenerys?” she asks. “She went home for the day. Said she wasn’t feeling well.”

“Oh. Right.” Jon nods.

Shae stops in her tracks. “Did you need something, Mr Snow?”

Jon grimaces. He hates his name from her lips. He only wants Daenerys to speak it. It makes him tingle. “No,” he says and slams the door shut. He leans up against it. He looks down at his trousers.

Jon doesn’t know what to do. He only knows one thing; by now, he owes Daenerys more than an apology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, DragonandDirewolf and I have been blown away by the response to the last few chapters. Thank you so much everyone who's read and commented!
> 
> A fun thing to note about this chapter; as previously mentioned, we originally planned this story for Kink Fest. At the time, I only had a vague idea of a boss Jon and secretary Daenerys, and DragonandDirewolf's simple request was for it to involve spanking. So technically, this chapter is the basis of the story!
> 
> From now on, the chapters will get slightly longer - between 6-9k. I tried to keep it around 5k in the beginning but failed. I hope it won't be glaring! Again, thanks for reading and as always we hope to see you next Sunday!


	5. The seat of power

Ygritte drawls: “Snow residence.”

Jon’s voice is curt: “You had no right to cash that cheque.”

“Good morning, Jon. How are you?” He can hear her glowing through the phone. She is probably in the living room, facing the outdoor pool, her smile smug.

Jon can’t sit still. The rotary phone is nestled under his arm. He stomps around his apartment. The cord gets stuck on the furniture. “You need to return it.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I already spent it.”

“You spent five thousand in less than a week?” Jon stops in front of his windows. He stares at his reflection. He looks tired - hair unruly, beard uncombed, skin ruddy. There’s an empty bottle of whisky on the kitchen counter. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday. It’s almost three in the afternoon. “What did you buy?”

“I’m finally going to Paris. In fact, thanks to your generosity, I’ll be travelling all over Europe. What should I bring you - wine from Italy, or olive oil from Spain?”

“It was a mistake.”

Ygritte pauses. “We were married, Jon. Don’t pretend you can’t afford it.”

“It’s not about the money,” Jon admits, “but you tricked my secretary.”

“She’s lovely. What was her name, Daenerys? Very unusual. Is she American” Ygritte chuckles. “She was so flustered when I asked for you. Made up some story about a meeting. Where were you, Jon? Getting drunk during work? You never did change.”

“Neither did you. It took years for Gilly to learn your tricks.”

“Years indeed - is that why you fired her, too old for you? Your new girl sounds awfully young. Twenty-something? I bet you can’t wait to ruin her future like you ruined mine.”

Jon’s cheeks are going red. He kicks the door to the balcony open. The glass wobbles in its frame. He steps out into the sun. It’s warm. He narrows his eyes. “You get out of the house,” he says, breathing in the hot air, “and you leave my secretary alone.”

“Is she pregnant?” Ygritte asks.

Jon’s breathing gets more sharp. “I said, leave her alone.”

“You’re a fool,” Ygritte says. There is laughter in her voice. “You’ll never be happy. You don’t even know what happiness is. You’ve changed since you came back from Korea, haven't you realised? Watch out or you’ll end up just like your dad - a shell of a man who lives in the past." She pauses for effect before adding: "I pity the girl who falls in love with you.”

Jon’s arm shakes. He squeezes hard around the handset. “Get out of my house,” he says, “and never contact me again.” He doesn’t hang up. He lifts the phone from under his arm, holds it up over his head, and throws it off the balcony. The cord is the last thing to fly over the railing as the plug rips from the wall. He hears it smash to the street several stories below. Someone screams in surprise. Ghost pops his head out from between the balcony doors. His red eyes glimmer with interest.

Jon lights a cigarette as he watches his dog. He waits for the doorman to call him. He expects a scolding. He hears a buzzing, pops the smoke back between his lips, and strolls to the door. “You better hide,” he says to his dog and watches him trudge off to the bedroom, “I’m not meant to have you here, remember?” He waits until the dog is out of sight. Then he opens the door with a gruff: “What?”

Daenerys peers back at him in surprise. She’s in a pink mock-neck top, tartan mini-skirt, and white go go boots. She has the babydoll look with pale lips and bold eyes. She smells of hairspray - her locks are brushed back behind her ears.

She reminds Jon of a trendy college girl. Ygritte’s comments spin in Jon’s head. He suddenly feels very old. Before greeting her, he says: “Why are you wearing that?” He can’t help but look at her legs. The skin looks smooth. She is tanned. He wonders how far he has to slide his hand to reach her snow pale flesh.

Daenerys flushes. “I’m meeting some girlfriends,” she says. Her voice trembles a bit, but she regains herself. She straightens up. She looks him in the eyes. “Why are you wearing that?” she repeats his question.

Jon looks down. His suit trousers are crinkled. His shirt is unbuttoned. He grabs at the fabric and pulls it tight around his chest. “I wasn’t expecting company,” he says. He feels embarrassed. When he lets her in, he steps aside to button up. His back is turned to her. “What are you doing here?”

“Miss Tyrell is not back until tomorrow. She told me she normally brings you this.”

Jon turns. Daenerys is holding out a bag. He recognises the logo on its side. It’s his dry cleaning. He takes it with a small: “Thank you.”

Daenerys folds her hands at her front and gives him a patient look. “Would you like for me to get your dry cleaning from now on, Mr Snow?”

Jon flushes. He can’t tell if she’s mocking him. He can’t tell if she’s upset. The last time they spoke, she was across his lap, and his hand was on her buttocks, and he smoked as he spanked her and told her off like a child. He should apologise. He says nothing.

“Hello,” Daenerys says.

Jon flushes with annoyance: “I was just thinking,” he explains before noticing what she’s looking at - there, through the door to his bedroom, Ghost stands watching. “I told you to hide,” he sighs, but it’s no use; his dog walks up to Daenerys and, when she holds out her hand, lets her stroke his thick, warm fur.

“He’s very friendly,” Daenerys says.

“Too friendly,” Jon mumbles and gives his dog a hard look. Ghost defiantly rubs his way past them before settling under the living room table, his black snout sticking out onto the carpet.

Daenerys brushes hair off her hands as she continues: “Mr Snow, as I was saying - I understand I have less experience than Miss Tyrell, but I would like to take on all duties that relate to you. I was hired as your secretary. I want to show that I am capable of doing the work.”

“Your attention has been lacking recently,” Jon says. He puts the shirts down in an armchair. He finds himself glancing around - the apartment is cluttered, and dirty. His cleaning lady has not been by yet. It looks like a bachelor’s pad. “I just got off the phone to my ex-wife,” Jon starts, but Daenerys interrupts:

“You can deduct my pay.” When Jon stares at her, he finds her violet eyes are shimmering. She is upset, he decides, but about her own mistake. Her lips are pouted. She swallows before speaking. “Not at once,” she clarifies, “but a little every week. Whatever it takes. Five dollars?”

Jon narrows his eyes. He removes the smoke from his lips. “How much do you make a week?”

Daenerys eyes her boots. “Sixty-five,” she replies.

Jon thinks back to the first time they met. Even then, Daenerys pointed out that her salary was low. He never knew the figure. He has a drag of his smoke. He sighs: “I am not going to deduct your pay.” He waves for her to sit down as he slumps into his sofa. He watches her as she gingerly settles right on the edge of an armchair, her eyes uncertain. “I just got off the phone with my ex-wife,” Jon starts again, “and she told me she caught you out. Miss, she does this to everyone. You’re not the first secretary to get things wrong.”

“Am I the first to get punished?” Daenerys asks. Her voice is pure, but her eyes are not. When Jon looks into them, he feels his cock stir.

Jon gets up and walks the liquor cabinet. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No thank you,” Daenerys replies, but when he hands her a glass of Smirnoff, she takes it. She looks into the clear liquid. “You know, Mr Snow, nothing happened.”

Jon pours himself some Canadian Club whilst eyeing Daenerys. He looks at her painted eyes, and the way her breasts stretch the shirt, and how her knees are pushed together, and the gentle dip in his carpet from where she rests her boots. He wonders if she dresses up for other men. He wonders if she dances with them. He wonders if she lets them touch her.

Jon has a sip of his drink. “It happened,” he says, “it shouldn’t have, but it did. I lost control.”

Daenerys shakes her head. Her hair bobs about. “I mean, the night I was here.” She looks at him from between her lashes. “Nothing happened. You fell asleep, and I went home.”

“Why do you say that,” Jon asks. He finally knows. He thought he would be relieved. He feels disappointed.

“Maybe you were punishing me for it,” Daenerys says slowly, “maybe you felt guilt.”

“I have taken advantage,” Jon admits.

“No,” Daenerys replies, and her voice is clear. She leans back on the sofa. She crosses her legs. She looks like she’s not a guest, but a host. She looks him in the eyes. “You can not take advantage of me,” she says, “I am quite capable of saying no.”

Jon clears his throat. The heat from outside seems to pull at him. He wants to walk over and close the balcony doors, but he finds he can’t move. He drinks his whisky. He watches Daenerys. He asks: “How old are you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Maybe it does to me.”

“Mr Snow,” Daenerys says, and she stands up. She corrects her skirt. She takes her time. “I told you on my first day - Miss Tyrell has instructed me in all parts of the job. When I moved, I was under no delusion as to what happens in big New York companies. I’ve seen worse on TV.”

“It’s not part of your job,” Jon says quickly.

Daenerys smiles at him. “I have rejected many men,” she says, “since taking over your desk. No one can have me - unless, of course,” she holds his stare as she finishes her glass of vodka in one gulp, “I let them.” She hands him the empty glass.

Jon takes it in stunned silence. “Miss,” he says.

“Thank you for the drink, Mr Snow,” Daenerys says, and she makes a move toward his door, “but I really should be on my way.”

Jon follows her. He watches her full behind move under the flimsy fabric of her skirt. He wishes he could change the dress code at work. “Miss,” Jon says as she steps over the threshold, “there’s just one thing.” He waits until Daenerys turns to face him. His grip on the glass tightens. He feels warm. “When you were here, something of mine went missing.”

Daenerys cocks her head. She twirls a lock of hair around her finger. She looks like the beginning of a peep show. Jon grows hard. “Whatever did you lose, Mr Snow?” she asks.

“It was on my nightstand,” he says. He doesn’t specify. He doesn’t have to.

Daenerys smiles sweetly. “Oh, Mr Snow, I think there has been a misunderstanding. That wasn’t yours - that was mine. It was very kind of you to hold on to it for me.” Her gaze slips to his hand. She pauses, then reaches over and grabs him at the wrist. His hold on the glass loosens. “Relax, Mr Snow,” she says, her voice polite, “I think you worked your hand plenty yesterday.” When she lets go, she leaves a scent of peaches on his skin. She walks to the elevator with brisk steps. “Goodbye, Mr Snow.”

Jon mumbles: “Goodbye, Miss Targaryen,” and he watches her disappear behind the closing doors. He looks at his wrist. He gives it a sniff. He grows harder. But he has no time to waste - it’s late Saturday afternoon, and he needs to buy a new phone before Monday.

* * *

Jon admires the drawing. A woman is sucking foam off her finger, an exaggerated expression of shock on her face. In bold, it reads: GO ON… HAVE ANOTHER. ARRYN ALE: Less Calories, More Fun! The beer in her hand is dripping with condensation. It’s suggestive. It’s fun. Jon puts the artwork down and looks at Samwell.

The man squirms in his chair. He points to the folder next to Jon. “There are more,” he says, “if you don’t like that one.”

“Stop selling yourself short,” Jon says. He puts the drawing back in the file and hands it to Samwell. “It’s good. I’m impressed.”

“It’s good?” Samwell repeats with hesitation. The man’s face is glistening. It’s not just the heat making him sweat. “You like it?”

Jon lights a cigarette and blows out smoke. He glances across the men gathered in the room; Theon, stretched out on his sofa, Tyrion, browsing his liquor, Gendry, smoking in the windowsill, and Samwell, wriggling in discomfort in the armchair. “You’ve all done good work recently,” he says, and the men in the room look at each other with satisfaction. “What’s going on?”

“We’re just inspired,” Tyrion says.

“It’s Sam’s big day keeping us jittery,” Theon grins.

Samwell’s eyebrows shoot up, and he starts fumbling through his pockets. “That’s true,” he says, “Mr Snow, I’ve got something for you. Here.” He pulls out a small envelope and hands it over.

Jon grabs it. It’s square and pink, and has his name in gold on the front.

“It’s an invitation to my wedding,” Samwell says. “I hope you’ll come.”

“We’re all coming,” Gendry points out.

Jon forces a smile to his lips and puts the envelope down on his desk without opening it. “I’ll look into it,” he says, “thank you, Sam.”

Theon stands up and claps his hands together. “Well, then, I guess it’s time for lunch.”

“Hold on.” Jon looks down at his notes. He flips over the page. “You’ve not given me anything on the Frey account. What do they do again, construction?”

Theon slips his hands into the pockets of his trousers and kicks the floor. “Ah, right. I need another week to put that together. Things have been difficult.”

Jon narrows his eyes. “In what way?”

“I need some more help,” Theon says, “with getting it sorted. Some support from creative.”

“Hold on - you asked for more accounts, and now you’re not finishing the work for them?”

Theon kicks the floor again. He’s starting to go red. “I said, I just need one more week.”

Jon puts down his smoke. He leans back in his chair. He doesn’t stop staring at Theon. “Could you all leave us?” he asks.

Samwell gets up first - he all but bolts to the door, the file fluttering under his arm. Gendry is at his heels, his eyes watching Jon all the way out. Tyrion takes the time to finish his drink before announcing: “Nice knowing you,” to Theon, and he pats his arm on his way past.

The door shuts. Jon picks his cigarette back up. He raises his brows and says: “Go on. Give me your reasoning.”

Theon scoffs: “It’s not fair.” He lights a smoke and sits down in the chair opposite of Jon, his face scrounged with defiance.

Jon has a drag. “What’s not fair?” he asks. “That you get more responsibility than you can handle, or that I look naive for believing in you?”

“I’ve done good work in the last months.”

“So has Tyrion - he still brought in work.”

“ _Bad_ work - you rejected all of it,” Theon reminds him.

Jon leans on to his desk. He sends him a blunt look. “At least he brought me something,” he says, and he watches Theon’s forehead glisten with sweat, “whilst you just ignored an account.”

Theon blows out smoke. He watches his cigarette with a frown. For a while, it looks like he’s just about to say something. Then he snubs the smoke out in Jon’s ashtray. “Forget it,” he says. “You won’t get it.” He moves to stand.

Jon’s voice is sharp: “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

“No? Is that just Daenerys?” Theon asks.

Jon blinks. Something inside of him stirs. His cheeks are warm with anger. His hand shivers with shame. He slowly puts down his smoke and pushes the ashtray aside as he stands up. He looks down at Theon. “Care to repeat that?” he asks. He can’t decide what he knows. Is he mocking him for being weak, is he accusing him of playing into his secretary? He ponders what he’s seen. He imagines firing Theon, marching him out with a little box full of his stuff.

Theon peers down at his shoes. He rubs his thighs. He looks uncomfortable. “It’s not just me,” he says, “others have noticed it too - she’s so rude to all of us.”

Jon pauses. So it’s not about him, he realises. He’s not sure if he likes that. He doesn’t speak.

Theon’s rubbing intensifies as his cheeks go red. “She doesn’t take messages, she gossips, she’s impossible to schedule meetings with. She’s just not a good secretary.”

“She’s been perfect,” Jon replies before thinking. He realises it’s the truth; since he spanked her, Daenerys has acted with flawless professionalism. She arrives on time, she leaves on time, she takes care of his schedule, and she only replies _Yes, Mr Snow_ to all of his requests. He likes when she gets him ice. The condensation from the bucket leaves her shirt wet. He sends her three times a day, and every time she smiles: _Yes, Mr Snow, right away, Mr Snow._ Sometimes she lingers at the threshold.

Jon swallows. He unbuttons the top of his shirt. He suddenly feels parched. He wants to pour a drink. He decides against it. “Theon,” he says, “if you’re trying to deflect from your poor attitude-”

“Ask anyone,” Theon insists. He finally looks him in the eyes. He pushes out his jaw, his face strong with honesty. “Ask anyone,” he repeats, “they’ll tell you the same thing - she’s difficult.”

Jon closes his eyes. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “How is this relevant to your work?”

“I will do my job,” Theon says, “but she needs to respect the workplace. It makes me look bad in front of clients.”

Jon smacks his lips. He can taste blood. He didn’t realise he was biting down on his tongue that hard. He gestures at the door. “I’ll look into it,” he says, “now do your work.”

“That’s all I ask.” Theon gets up, and he holds out his hand for a shake.

Jon grabs his smoke instead. “Anything else?” he asks, his voice curt.

Theon’s eyes narrow. A wry smile takes over his lips. He bends his fingers, pulls his hand back, and shakes his head. “Good day,” he mumbles, and he stalks out of the office. When he passes Daenerys’ desk, he doesn’t pause to chat.

Jon sits back down. He shakes his head. “What a moron,” he mumbles and starts taking notes. Something still nags him. He pauses at every other paragraph, looks up, and glances through the open door toward Daenerys. She has gotten more bold, he decides. She is no longer the innocent, naive girl from Milwaukee. He wonders if she’s blunt with others too.

Jon gnaws down around his smoke. His imagination takes over. He sees Daenerys flirting with Tyrion, and rejecting meetings with the Martells, and slacking off in the kitchen with the other girls. He could ask Margaery if she’s noticed anything unusual, but her loyalty is questionable; she lives with Daenerys.

The heat in the office seems unbearable. Jon pulls at his tie and sighs. He finally gets up, grabs his jacket, and heads out of the door. There is only one person who knows everything that goes on in the workplace - though, Jon reminds himself, his loyalty is debatable too.

* * *

Petyr Baelish reminds Jon of a weasel; he’s lean, his dark eyes are curious, and his demeanour is a little too friendly. Before Jon gets a chance to speak, he’s already poured him a drink. He hands it to him with a gleaming smile. “Mr Snow, what an honour,” he says. He leads him into his office whilst his secretary - a skinny young girl with brown eyes and brown hair - quickly shuts the door.

“Thank you,” Jon says, looking into the glass. It’s Canadian Club. He can tell from the smell. “I need your expertise.”

“Is it business or pleasure?” Petyr asks.

“Do I want you to clarify?”

“That was a trick - in fact, they’re one and the same. It all depends on the company. What do you think of mine? Jeyne’s her name.” He settles against his desk, his hands in his lap. He’s wearing a cardigan sweater over his shirt. Jon thinks he looks too comfortable. “Of course, you’ve acquired fierce competition.”

“I’ll tell you what I told my guys - you can talk to Margaery if you’re unhappy.”

“Believe me - I don’t need Margaery to get what I want.” Petyr’s smile is slick. He lights a cigarette before gesturing for Jon to do the same. As he blows out smoke, he sighs: “I can tell from the frown on your face that you’re here for business. It’s a shame - few men truly appreciate that I offer much in other departments.”

“I’m still to really understand what your job around here is,” Jon replies, lighting a cigarette.

Petyr cocks his head. “Yet here you are.”

Jon blows out smoke as he peers into the man’s eyes. He’s worked with Petyr for over ten years. He knows nothing about him. Only one thing is apparent; he has to remain wary. When he speaks, he chooses his words with care. “You’re always the first to know things around here,” he says.

“I’m flattered.”

“Is there anything I should be aware of?”

Petyr’s eyes narrow. He slips down from his desk and walks to his windows, and he looks outside. His view is of the main road. Jon imagines he watches every man who enters the building. “You’re close to Robert,” Petyr says, “I don’t presume to have more insight than our good boss.”

“I don’t need you to admit anything,” Jon says. “Between Margaery and yourself, there’s not a single secret within this office.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Petyr says with untamed glee, and he looks over his shoulder back at Jon. His black eyes gleam. “There are many secrets. The real question is: _who knows what._ ”

“I’ve had a complaint.”

“I’ve given up on keeping track of those - with the amount of employees who idly gossip about your demeanour, I would have to fill the whole building with filing cabinets to stay on top.”

“It’s not about me,” Jon says, though he ponders who’s been moaning behind his back. He has a sip of his drink. He could leave, he knows. He could ignore Theon’s jab at Daenerys and do his work and go home for the day. He doesn’t have to involve anyone else. Jon sighs. He breathes in. He says: “It’s about my secretary.”

Petyr beams. He turns on his view and slips across the floor back to his desk. “She’s troublesome, is she?” he asks.

Jon scoffs. “Is that what they say?”

“Is that what you’ve heard?” Petyr stops before Jon. He puts his cigarette in the ashtray, and he watches him like a dog eyes a piece of meat. “Indeed, I’ve heard many things about Daenerys. You do surprise me, Jon - I didn’t think you cared for other people’s opinion. You’ve always come across as distrusting.”

“Thanks for your time,” Jon says and hands back the glass. He’s barely tasted the whisky.

Petyr doesn’t take the drink. “I meant no offence,” he says, “you should honour that intuition.” He is smiling.

Jon stands up and glares into the man’s eyes. “I didn’t ask for therapy.”

“I’d never suggest it,” Petyr replies, “see, I find suspicion to be a valued skill. People who talk of mistrust as a bad character trait are often fooled by their own naivety.” He pushes the glass back into Jon’s hand as he smirks: “You want to know about Daenerys? She’s punctual. She’s hard working. She speaks well to her superiors. If she was my girl, I would find it difficult not to keep her behind after hours. I like the way she says my name, _Mr Baelish._ It rolls off her sweet little tongue like a song.”

Jon is shaking. He reminds himself: he wants the information. He can’t act up. He grabs around the glass with both hands not to shove it down Petyr’s throat. His every compliment about Daenerys is sticky with suggestion. He tries not to move a muscle. “So there’s no gossip?”

“The girls hate her.”

Jon frowns: “Why?”

“Maybe because her boss lets her wear ripped stockings for his own pleasure?”

Jon coughs on his cigarette. He stares at Petyr who smiles sweetly.

“The secretaries are in collusion, Jon - the quicker they get pregnant, the sooner they can start a new life as a glamorous housewife.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Well, with Gilly gone, your desk was requested by almost everyone. But who takes it?” Petyr chuckles. “The new young thing with the perkiest bosom and the thickest legs.”

“She had no say in it,” Jon says, his voice weak. He’s never thought much of the desk allocation - the girls would come and sit wherever they were told to sit, and they would do whatever work they were told to do, and they would go home at the end of the day with a paycheque. The only ones to ever complain were the men.

Petyr waves dismissively at Jon. “You don’t have to convince me.”

“So she’s unpopular - Margaery can manage that.”

“The men hate her too,” Petyr continues dully.

Jon throws out his hands. “Will you just give me the whole picture?” he asks. His voice is exasperated. He’s annoyed at himself for not keeping his wits about him - the moment his tone changes, Petyr’s face glows with enjoyment.

The man takes his time to walk around his desk, seat himself in his chair, and get comfortable. He straightens up. He continues: “I’ve heard that she complicates matters for the guys. She used to be approachable, but recently she’s been difficult to work with.”

Jon chews on his inner cheek. _Difficult._ It’s the same word Theon used. It bothers him to hear it again. He pushes two fingers into the collar of his shirt and pulls at the fabric to let air in. “You said she speaks well.”

“I am not repeating what I’ve seen, but what I’ve heard,” Petyr clarifies. “You came to me to get a sense of the general mood in the office, did you not? Well, this is it - Daenerys displays every character trait that would ensure her success as a man, and therefore she is doomed to fail as a woman.”

Jon looks stunned. “That’s your conclusion?”

Petyr throws out his hands. “It’s the only logical one.”

Jon snubs out his smoke in his ashtray. He hesitates, then offers Petyr his hand. “Thanks for your help,” he says, “it was very insightful.”

Petyr’s palm is too small and too clammy. When he shakes Jon’s hand, Jon pulls back as soon as he can without appearing impolite. “My pleasure. See, there it is again - business and pleasure always go hand in hand. Perhaps you can remind your secretary of that.”

Jon scoffs, and he makes his way toward the door with long steps. “Perhaps,” he just says. He’s too busy thinking to focus on anything else Petyr has to say. His head is buzzing: how can he reprimand Daenerys when she’s been so perfect recently? As he passes her on his way back to his office, he imagines pulling her in by the skirt, bending her over his desk, and landing another round of slaps on her bare buttocks. He imagines groaning in her ear:

“You need to change your attitude, Miss” - only the problem is that she doesn’t.

Jon has barely taken a seat before his intercom sounds, and Daenerys’ smooth voice asks: “Mr Snow, would you like me to get you some more ice?”

Jon’s body tingles. He imagines picking up an ice cube and running it all over her body until her skin is cool and her nipples hard. He clears his throat. He presses the button. “No thank you,” he says. He’s dripping sweat. He turns on his fan before pressing the button again: “Miss?”

Daenerys’ reply is swift: “Yes, Mr Snow?”

“I need you to stay behind after five. There’s something we need to discuss.” He waits. His hand hovers the button. He expects her to put up a fight, he assumes she’ll point out that she’s been scolded for staying late.

Daenerys replies: “Of course, Mr Snow, I will be waiting.”

Jon leans back in his seat. He closes his eyes. As the cool air from the fan brushes across his face, he tries to come up with a polite way of addressing Daenerys’ faults. Yet somehow, every idea just makes him all the warmer.

* * *

Jon drinks. He smokes. He paces around his office. He changes his tie twice. He decides he’s not going to speak to Daenerys. He decides he has to. When he checks the time, it’s quarter to six. He swears under his breath. He hopes she might have left, but when he opens the door, she looks up from her desk. Her eyes are attentive.

Jon steps aside. “Come in,” he says.

“I thought you forgot about me, Mr Snow,” Daenerys replies as she trods past him.

“Would you like a drink?”

“To celebrate or commiserate?” She stops behind the armchair, her hands resting on the back. She boldly meets his eyes. “Miss Tyrell explained that compliments here are handled privately, however Miss Poole told me, _Daenerys, it’s never a good thing when the boss keeps you behind._ ”

Jon’s mouth goes dry. He closes the door and heads to his seat. “You spoke to Jeyne?” He avoids looking at her face. He wonders what she knows.

Daenerys shrugs. “All the girls speak,” she says as Jon sinks into his chair. She eyes his face with care. “Should I be concerned?”

“Your conduct recently has been exemplary,” Jon starts as he pulls out his last smoke from the box. He rummages around his desk drawer for his lighter. Before he can stop her, Daenerys pulls out her own, leans over, and lights his smoke. He smells peaches. His upper-lip shivers. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

“I’m glad,” Daenerys says, and she truly looks it - cheeks bright, eyes proud. “I told you before, Mr Snow - I am good at my job.”

“Yes, there’s just one issue.” Jon clears his throat. The cigarette bobs between his lips. He tries to come up with an elaborate way to explain the situation. Petyr has a way with words. When Jon looks into Daenerys eyes, he finds he can barely remember English.

“Issue?” she asks.

Jon blows out smoke. He could kiss her, he thinks. He could kiss her silly and then undress her and have her on his sofa. It is comfortable to fantasise - dealing with reality leaves him unnerved. “I’ve had some recent concerns about your conduct with other staff members,” he finally says.

The glow on Daenerys’ face starts to fade. “Someone’s complained?” she asks.

Jon nods. He looks at his cigarette. It’s easier than watching her face. “I take no issue with your professionalism,” he assures her, “but it’s come to my attention that the other secretaries are unhappy with your behaviour.”

“What other girls?” Daenerys queries briskly.

Jon scoffs: “I shouldn’t say.”

“Because you won’t or because you can’t?”

Jon licks his lips. Perhaps, he thinks, he spoke of her professionalism too soon. Although it is tamed, there is heat to her voice. He speaks slowly: “That is not a matter up for debate.” But he wonders the same - who was Petyr referring to? He wishes he’d asked him. Instead he continues: “I’ve also been warned that you’re unfriendly with the guys. Difficult.”

“Oh, Mr Snow, I wonder who said that,” Daenerys muses, but there is little confusion on her face, “the men I’ve helped, or the men I’ve rejected. Did you speak to Mr Greyjoy by chance?” She pauses as Jon’s face grows red. “What a coincidence,” she adds dryly.

Jon taps ashes off his smoke with a scowl. He feels embarrassed. He wants to regain control. He says: “Look, Miss, I’m obliged to pay attention to these matters.”

“With all due respect, Mr Snow, I disagree.” Daenerys’ nails tap along the backrest of the chair. It bothers Jon that she hasn’t taken a seat yet. “You compliment my work, and yet scold me on the basis of gossip.”

“I wanted to hear your side,” Jon says weakly.

Daenerys raises her brows. “You want my opinion? I think you men sit in your big chairs in your big offices, and it makes you feel powerful. You have your name on the door in gold. Us secretaries are known only by our boss. I am not _Miss Targaryen,_ I am _Mr Snow’s girl._ ”

Jon scoffs in disbelief and stands up. He points at his old leather seat. “You think this chair makes me powerful?” Smoke streams from the sides of his lips.

Daenerys huffs: “I think it makes you feel big.”

“Sit down.” Jon pats at his chair and he looks across the desk at her. As Daenerys blinks, he repeats: “Come on. Sit down and tell me if you feel powerful.”

Daenerys sucks in her lower lip. She looks like she’s going to leave the office. Instead, she walks around the desk and stops on the other side of the old leather chair. She looks at it. She looks at Jon. “You know that’s not the point,” she says.

“Sit down,” Jon repeats.

Daenerys sighs. She grabs at the skirt of her dress, moves to the seat of the chair, and slips down. The leather groans under her. She pauses, then leans back, allowing her body to sink into the backrest. She is small. The chair is large. Her styled hair just reaches its top.

“Here,” Jon says, and he pulls the smoke from his lips and hands it to her.

Daenerys gingerly accepts it, her eyes full of doubt. “Is this another form of punishment?”

Jon chuckles. He leans against the desk as he watches her. “Go on,” he says.

“What do you mean?” she asks. Her voice is flustered.

“Do you feel powerful?”

“The chair is not made for me.”

“The chair is not made for anyone. You make the chair,” Jon says. “It’s just like advertisement - if you tell someone something enough times, they’ll start to believe it. _Arryn Ale is fun. Frey Construction is always safe. Bolton Knives are recommended by chefs._ Repeat, and repeat.”

Daenerys looks at the cigarette. “What if it’s not that others start believing you,” she asks, “but that you start believing it yourself?”

“Is that so terrible?”

“It is, if no one else sees it.” She finally has a drag of the smoke. Her lips pout around the cigarette. When she pulls away, she leaves a lipstick mark on the white paper. She hands it back to him. “Why did you call me in here, Mr Snow?”

“To discuss your attitude.”

“No, that’s not it.”

Jon looks at the lipstick mark. When he has a drag of the smoke, he wonders if he can taste her in the tobacco or if he’s just imagining it. “Why don’t you tell me then, Miss?” He hands her the cigarette.

“You want to assert yourself,” Daenerys says, “you all do.” She takes the smoke and has a drag. She peers up at Jon from between her lashes. She’s uncertain, he can tell - not of what she’s saying, but of the fact that she’s saying it. “I really need this job.”

“I’m asking you,” Jon says, “you won’t be fired.”

Daenerys takes in a deep breath. Her fingers shake a bit. She smacks her lips with a sigh: “Well, if you want my honesty, Mr Snow, it is this; you live by the chain of command. Mr Baratheon tells you off, so you tell the guys off, and the guys tell me off. Down and down the chain it goes, until there is no one below. My actions do not matter - I am on the bottom either way.”

Jon watches her for a while. He sees how her eyes dip, and her shoulders rise, and her head sinks. He sees how she nurses the cigarette, her lips tightly wrapped around the paper. He grabs onto the armrests and leans down, his eyes levelling with hers. “What do you want?” he asks. His voice is low and husky.

Daenerys lets go of her breath in surprise. The hot smoke bashes across Jon’s face. She stutters: “What do you mean?”

“Do you want respect? Do you want power? Do you want my job?” Jon asks. Once he locks eyes with her, he finds that he can’t look away. Her face is pale, and honest. “What do you want?”

When Daenerys speaks, her voice is a warm whisper: “I only want what every man has.”

Jon leans closer. Daenerys is still smoking. He can taste ashes in the air, and smell the smoke on her lips. “And what,” he asks, his face hovering an inch from hers, “is that?”

Daenerys bites her lower lip. Her white teeth bleed pink from her lipstick. She reaches up and pushes her fingers across his cheek, over his ear, into his hair. She answers: “Everything.”

Jon kisses her. He swallows her smoke and her breath. His tongue dips into her warm, wet mouth. He tastes tobacco, and coffee, and his nose fills with the scent of peaches and sweat. This close, he can sense it on her skin; how she’s dusty with perspiration from the summer heat.

If Daenerys says something, he can’t hear it. Her voice is quiet against his lips. But her body speaks; her bosom rises, her knees draw apart, her nails dig into his shirt, crinkling the fabric. She draws him in. She pulls him closer. Jon realises that this is what he craves; to want, and to be wanted.

Jon’s hand slips between her legs. He feels the cheap fabric of her stockings, the smoothness of her skin, the heat from between her legs. His hand against her sex is wet. Her knickers are soft like silk. Jon has often imagined what Daenerys would feel like; now, as his fingers work across her clothed sex, and she gasps and rises to meet his touch, he knows that reality exceeds his expectation.

She is real. She is willing. When he breaks the kiss, she whispers to his ear: “Mr Snow, you’re a bad man.” It sounds like a compliment. Jon can’t help but smile.

“If you want everything,” he says, his lips dragging down her chin, her neck, her collarbone. The lipstick smears across her pale skin. Jon’s kisses turn sloppy on purpose. “Then you need to give less and take more.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” she admits.

Jon smirks. He drops to his knees. The carpet sinks in around him. “Then let me show you.” He grabs at her skirt and, before she can say another word, pulls the loose fabric over his head as he dips his head between her legs.

The hotness under her skirt is intense. Jon’s fingers dip into her thick thighs as he takes in the sight of her wet sex. He can see the pink skin around the line of her knickers. He can see how she’s slick with juices. He can smell her; it’s sweet, and fresh.

In Jon’s imagination, there are no colours, and no smells, and no tastes. It’s like a movie at a peep show; the pictures play, and he feels like he’s there, but he is not. He is removed. He is an observer.

But now, as he dips his nose to her heat, as he drags the fabric aside with his tongue, as he greedily licks and kisses and sucks at her sex - then he realises this is real. Her thighs close around his face, blocking out all sounds, and her hands dip into his hair through her skirt, holding him in place, and the rocking against his mouth is not controlled by his fantasy, but by her desires. And Jon decides: he prefers reality.

Jon’s tongue dips into her folds. Her scent lingers on his moustache. Her voice echoes in her body. He feels it in the way she rolls her hips to meet his mouth. How her heels dig at his back. The way in which she tugs and pulls at his hair, overcome with need. This is it, he thinks. To give, and to take. True power is having the choice.

“Oh, Mr Snow,” she moans, “oh God, Mr Snow,” and Jon has never heard his name sound so perfect.

Jon grows hard. His body drips with sweat. Tucked beneath the desk, his back against the wood, his body aches, and his muscles tremble from keeping in place. Perhaps he has grown old. Perhaps he doesn’t care. All that matters is making Daenerys feel good.

She rocks across the chair. The leather groans with a wet sound. Her skirt is sticking to her buttocks. Jon wonders what it would be like to dive his nose further around her pink, sensitive flesh.

“Oh, Mr Snow,” she says again, but there is something else to her voice. Panic. Then he hears it; a knock against wood, a handle that creaks. The door swings open.

Robert’s voice fills the room: “Jon!”

Jon freezes under the desk. He breathes against Daenerys’ sex. Her hands are still in his hair, but her legs drag closer together around his face. He is stuck. He is seen. He is fired.

Robert’s voice is slurred with alcohol: “Oh, Miss Targaryen. Is Mr Snow still in?”

To Jon’s surprise, he hears Daenerys answer with perfect politeness: “Good evening, Mr Baratheon. I am afraid you missed him. Mr Snow went home at five.”

“Don’t tell lies,” Robert says. Jon can’t read his voice from between Daenerys’ thighs.

“I am always honest, Mr Baratheon,” Daenerys says, her voice clear.

“Sweetheart, I know he didn’t leave at five.” Robert pauses. He continues: “He probably left at noon to see a burlesque show. Hah!” His boss roars with laughter.

Daenerys’ own giggling is shrill: “Of course. Did you want me to schedule a meeting?”

“You’re lovely, did you know that? Forget meetings. I actually wanted to talk to you. Do you know about the Martells?”

“Mr Oberyn Martell and Mrs Ellaria Martell? They’re the resort owners, are they not?” Daenerys’ reply is knowledgeable, but not obnoxious. Jon is awed at how easily she plays into Robert.

“Close enough. Well, Mrs Martell is getting bored at the meetings, says she wants some female company. So you’re coming along to Friday’s dinner. It’s a good chance for you to dress up and look pretty. You can try to keep Mr Snow off the whisky while you’re at it too.” Robert chuckles.

Daenerys laughs. “I will not pretend to be a miracle worker.”

Jon’s nails dig into her thighs. He can imagine how smug she feels, rocking her sex to his nose to keep him silent. He tries to listen; he can hear Robert’s weight on the threshold, his deep breathing as he hesitates. Jon’s own breathing is getting heavy - the air under Daenerys’ skirt is minimal.

Robert asks: “Does he know you use his office when he’s out?” His tone is no longer jolly.

Daenerys swallows. Jon feels her fingers nervously glide through his hair again and again. It’s like his locks are being brushed at the barbers. She makes his scalp sore. “I am just filing away some paperwork,” she says, her voice calm, “then I’ll be on my way.”

“You could join me for dinner?”

Jon scoffs. He wants to pull away, stand up, and tell Robert exactly how to behave in front of his secretary. He can imagine how caught out Daenerys must feel. Only she doesn’t even hesitate - she laughs charmingly as she says: “Oh, Mr Baratheon, you’re a bad man - whatever will your wife say?” and Robert laughs with her.

“Good night, Miss,” he calls, and the door shuts.

Jon grabs at Daenerys’ legs as he draws his head out. He stares up at her. “Did you just flirt with him?”

Daenerys’ cheeks are pink. She blows out smoke and snubs the rest of the cigarette out in the ashtray. “I got him to go, didn’t I?” she asks. Then, as Jon still stares at her, she adds: “I’m on edge - don’t stop now.”

“No please?” Jon points out, but he sinks between her legs all the same. As he starts licking her sex again with vigour, Daenerys sighs:

“I guess the chair is working on me.”

Perhaps it’s the chair, perhaps it’s Jon’s keenness - but Daenerys does soon start squirming and rubbing herself to his face. He feels his lips wetten, and his beard dripping, and his nose round her nub with every move from her hips. She is close. He is close. She is warm. He is hot. She is willing. He is greedy.

She comes to his tongue. Her hands are in his hair, and her body buckles over in the seat. “Oh God!” she whispers.

Jon tastes her orgasm; he feels how her muscles close at his lips; he senses her heaving breath in her shivering hands. Then, at once, he can breathe. The skirt slips from his face. The hot air of the office suddenly seems cool on his cheeks. He gasps in. He leans his head back against the desk.

Daenerys peers down at him. She is glowing. He loves the way she looks. “That was highly inappropriate,” she says.

Jon licks her off his lips. “Consider yourself reprimanded,” he jests.

“I’ll consider myself educated,” Daenerys retorts.

Jon grabs at the armrests. He uses them to steady himself onto his feet. His knees crack. He hopes she doesn’t hear. As he settles against the desk, Daenerys reaches up and corrects his tie. He can’t help but chuckle. “I think that’s the least of my worries.” He is dripping sweat. His cock throbs between his legs. His cheeks are red and wet.

Daenerys smiles with professionalism. “I will contact Miss Tyrell first thing in the morning and inform her of the dinner.”

“Why?” Jon asks. “He asked for you.”

“So you would like me to go?”

Jon looks at her. She looks back at him. He realises: she’s asking permission. She doesn’t want to step out of line. He says: “What do you want?”

Daenerys seems to ponder. Her hands reach up to her hair. The updo has come undone. As she moves the pins around, she says: “I would like to come.” She looks at him for a reaction and, when he doesn’t scowl, she smiles: “I think I can do it. I’d like to meet the Martells properly.”

“Mr Martell is already a fan,” Jon says, thinking back on the way in which he eyed Daenerys. It makes his Adam apple jump with discomfort. He tries to forget at once. “Well, he’s fond of you, at least. So it’s Mrs Martell you need to convince.”

“What about you?” Daenerys asks.

Jon blinks. “I’ve already built a good rapport with them,” he says.

Daenerys shyly shakes her head. She pushes a lock of hair behind her ear as she eyes him. “No, I mean - are you fond of me, Mr Snow?”

Jon licks his lips. He tastes her. He smells her - she’s on his face, in his beard, across his office. Her sex, and her peaches. He can’t escape. He doesn’t want to. “Miss Targaryen, I-” he starts.

Daenerys interrupts him: “It’s professional.” She looks decisive. “Purely professional.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say. He just replies: “Of course.” The words taste false on his lips.

Daenerys smiles a little. She stands up and flattens her skirt. He sees her nails dig fabric free from between her buttocks. For some reason, it makes his heartbeat quicken. “Am I excused?” she asks.

Jon repeats: “Of course,” finding himself at loss for other words. His head is ringing. There are words he wants to speak. He swallows them all. “Good night, Miss,” he says and watches her head to the door.

“Good night,” Daenerys says, peeking back at him as she leaves, “Jon.” The door shuts.

Jon turns to the window. He thinks: she said Jon. Her voice was husky. Her eyes were dark. Her sex was still dripping, he’s sure of it. He wonders if her juices will make her stockings sticky by the time she reaches the subway. He imagines her sitting in the small seat, sopping from his kisses.

Jon needs to focus on the upcoming dinner. He needs to prepare Daenerys, he knows - dress, speech, account, interests. He needs to send her shopping. He should head home and plan. But perhaps Petyr is right - it’s business, and it’s pleasure.

Jon’s eyes slip to the chair. He can see a thin layer of wetness across the leather. Juices, and perspiration. He fights the urge to taste it. Instead, he settles back on his desk, loosens the tie that Daenerys has just corrected, and pushes his hands into his trousers as he touches himself to release.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we've passed the halfway point. I can't believe how quickly that's come about! I've been so thrilled with how well you've all received this story - thank you so much for your comments! It's always a joy to read your thoughts.
> 
> It seems Daenerys has started to gain some confidence! It is a halfway point of the story, but also a general point of change for both Daenerys and Jon, as is to be seen over the next half of the story. Hopefully you'll like what's coming up!
> 
> Thanks for your support - and see you next Sunday!


	6. A good girl

“Mr Snow,” Margaery says, “I am concerned.”

Jon looks up from his mug. The liquid is pale brown. When he sips it, he tastes water. He pours it into the kitchen sink and throws his cigarette at it. The smoke hisses as it’s extinguished. “How can I help, Miss Tyrell?”

The company kitchen is busy at noon. There are biscuit crumbs on the floor. Tea stains soak the counter. Secretaries mull in and out of the narrow space, grabbing sandwiches from the fridge and exchanging pleasantries. They smile at Margaery with admiration. They peer at Jon with pause. When they brush past him, they fluster with apologies.

Margaery watches as Roslin, young and meek, walks in, sees Jon, and turns on her heels to hurry away. She sighs: “You shouldn’t be in here, Mr Snow.”

“Miss Targaryen is out, and I needed coffee.”

“That didn’t look like coffee.” Margaery walks over and picks up Jon’s empty mug. She washes it out. “You can always ask me, but please don’t get your own. You make the girls nervous.”

Jon lights another smoke and steps aside as Margaery prepares his drink. He has a slow drag of the cigarette. “Surely they’ve seen a man in a kitchen before.”

Margaery laughs: “You’d be surprised!” She grabs the big tin of Nescafe and sends him a pleasant smile. “Mr Snow, all the men have an office. We girls work in an open space. When we want to talk, we can only go here.”

Jon ponders it over for a second. “So you go here to gossip?” he asks.

“Do you believe that men talk and women tattle?” Margaery asks.

“No,” Jon admits, thinking back on Petyr. He can’t imagine a woman with as many tales as him. “I don’t.” When he turns back to Margaery, she’s holding a perfect brew of coffee. He accepts the mug with a nod. “Thank you, Miss. How was your holiday?” He waves for her to follow as he heads back toward his office.

“It was wonderful. Hawaii is lovely at this time of year. Have you ever been?”

Jon thinks back on his honeymoon. Oahu. Ygritte spent every day in the pool. He sat in the shade sipping ice water. He replies: “No.”

“You ought to go one day. The Martells have a resort there. I’m sure they’d host you for free.”

“Is that where you stayed?”

“Oh no,” Margaery shakes her head and waits for Jon to enter his office before closing the door behind them, “I stayed with a friend. He owns a house on the coast.”

Jon nods in acknowledgement. He knows who her so-called _friend_ is, but he doesn’t comment. He settles behind his desk and pulls the smoke from his lips. Ashes fly through the air. He watches as she walks to the armchair. “I assume your concern is not related to my lack of vacationing?” Jon says.

Margaery smiles. She seats herself in front of his desk, her legs crossed. “Miss Targaryen told me that she’ll be attending a client dinner.”

Jon holds up his hands in defence. “Look, I know you have the most experience, but Mr Baratheon asked for her. I wasn’t in a position to argue.” He glances under his desk. He imagines the position he _was_ in; on his knees, pressed against the wooden backside, his lips embedded in Daenerys’ heat. He licks his lips and continues: “I hope it won’t cause an issue between you. I know you live together.”

“I am happy for her to attend,” Margaery assures him. “I’ve already spoken to her about what to expect.”

“Oh.” Jon feels flustered. He sips his coffee to get some time to think. “Then what’s the problem?”

“What is the Martell account worth?”

Jon blinks and puts down his mug. “You know I can’t say.”

“How much does Miss Targaryen make?” Margaery continues undeterred. She rests her hands over her knee as she leans forward, making sure to retain eye-contact with Jon. “Mr Snow, Mrs Martell could buy a new dress from Givenchy every day for a month and not see any difference in her earnings. In comparison, I dare say most of Miss Targaryen’s wardrobe appears to be secondhand.”

“She’s spending lunch buying a dress,” Jon says dismissively. “She won’t show up in some second hand gown.”

“Next to Mrs Martell, _anything_ she gets will look like a hand me down,” Margaery interrupts, her voice clear. She straightens up in her seat. Her tone is patient, her eyes less so. “The Martells will question the future of this company if we are unable to afford an outfit for one of our own employees.”

“Or they’ll question their billings when our secretaries dress better than the president’s wife,” Jon points out. He waves his smoke about as he speaks. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat. He’s annoyed. He is not sure how to react. He sighs: “I can’t put a dress on my expenses. Accounts will never approve.”

Margaery’s eyes narrow a bit. She looks like she wants to say something. Instead, she breathes out and nods. “Very well, Mr Snow,” she says, “I trust your decision. I only thought I should bring this matter to your attention.”

“Thank you, Miss Tyrell,” Jon says. His voice is dull. “I appreciate you looking out for me.”

“I am looking out for my girls,” Margaery says as she gets up and walks to the door. She pulls at the handle and looks back at him, her face stubborn. “Someone has to.” Before he can comment, she strolls out, cheerily greeting Daenerys at her desk: “Nice lunch?”

Jon glares through the open door. He dislikes that Margaery makes sense. He hates that he told the truth; the company will write off fifteen bottles of whisky for his personal use, but laugh at the idea of paying for a dress. Still, he can’t stop eyeing the brown paper bag at Daenerys’ feet. The moment Margaery walks off, he calls: “Miss Targaryen.”

Daenerys jumps to her feet. Her turquoise heels pad across his carpet. “I’m sorry, Mr Snow, I know I am back late,” she starts, but Jon stops her with a wave.

“What dress did you get?” he asks.

Daenerys’ cheeks go a bit pink. She looks between him and the bag. “Do you want to see?” she asks and, as he nods, she walks back and grabs the garment out of the bag. It’s rolled up in white paper. When she gingerly unwraps it, Jon feels a hopeful tickle in his chest. Perhaps it’s going to look acceptable. Perhaps Margaery was just playing with him.

When Daenerys unrolls the outfit, Jon gives it a hard stare: it’s a blue skimmer dress with a loose, black belt. It looks new. It looks young. It looks cheap. Jon thinks it’s something a schoolgirl would wear as her first adult dress.

Jon meets Daenerys’ eyes. She goes more red. “Do you not like it?” she asks and turns it between her hands. “I thought it would look good with a pair of black heels.”

“How much did it cost?” Jon asks.

Daenerys’ cheeks turn an even darker shade. “I don’t know,” she replies. Her voice is thick with lies. “I don’t remember.”

Jon sighs and rubs his forehead. He can feel a headache come along. He imagines showing up to dinner with Daenerys at his arm wearing that awful dress. He imagines Ellaria looking her up and down. He imagines her whispering to Oberyn: “Poor girl, she clearly makes a dollar a day.”

Jon empties his coffee. Then, with resolute, he stands up. “I need you to come with me,” he says.

Daenerys blinks. She holds the dress to her chest. “Okay?” she replies. “Where?”

Jon grabs his coat and hat off the stand outside his office. As he pulls them on, he looks at Daenerys. “We need to go shopping,” he says.

* * *

SAKS FIFTH AVENUE. The letters are engraved into the stone of the building. Daenerys stares at the front. It’s a dry but cold day. The wind drags at her hat. She holds onto the brim and shivers in her coat. She looks lost, Jon thinks. Like the first day they met; dropped in the midst of New York City with no map to guide her.

Jon offers her his arm. “Come on,” he says.

“I can’t afford it,” Daenerys replies. She doesn’t move.

Jon sighs: “I didn’t ask.”

“I know, so I’m telling you, Mr Snow - I can’t afford it.” She peers up at him.

Jon stares back at her. He pushes his arm under hers, pulls her to his side, and repeats: “Come on.” When he walks, Daenerys follows. His steps are long and assured. Hers are short and hurried. Her heels clack loudly across the stone. As they enter, they immediately silence against the soft carpeting.

The space is large. The walls are panelled. The lighting softly feeds through garlands of flowers hung across the ceiling. For a moment, Daenerys pauses in an archway, her hand on Jon’s arm soft, and she glances around the many rails of coats and dresses and gowns with innocent awe. “The place is beautiful,” she says.

Jon smiles: “I think we can find you a fitting outfit here.”

“Mr Snow, I told you-” Daenerys starts, but she’s cut short; a saleswoman dressed in black hurries up to them.

“Good afternoon,” she greets, “my name is Melisandre - how can I be of assistance?” The woman has fierce red hair and golden jewellery. It shimmers against her pale skin. When she smiles, Jon feels like he’s facing an animal ready to pounce.

“We’re looking for an evening dress,” Jon says. He glances at Daenerys - her violet eyes are wide and nervous, her hand on his arm digs in deeper - and he adds: “Perhaps shoes and a bag to match.”

“I’d be delighted to help.” Melisandre looks between them, her smile unwavering. When Jon takes off his hat, she reaches for it at once. “Let me hold that for you, Mister-?”

“Snow,” Jon says, “thank you.”

“So this must be Mrs Snow,” Melisandre says, turning to Daenerys.

Daenerys looks frightened at being spoken to. Before Jon can stop her, she practically shouts: “No!” Her cheeks go crimson at once.

Jon feels his heart skip a beat. He wonders what kind of tales the saleswomen will spin if he tells Melisandre the truth - that Daenerys is his secretary, and he’s about to spend a few hundred dollars on dressing her up. He would never be able to return. So he says: “Not yet,” and turns to the saleswoman who looks vexed. “We’re engaged.”

“How exciting,” Melisandre chirps.

Daenerys looks dumbstruck.

Jon explains: “It’s for a work event. A client dinner. We’re looking for something glamorous but understated.” He thinks back on Ellaria’s black dress. He adds: “Think _Audrey Hepburn_ , or,” he remembers stumbling into Daenerys after Samwell’s night out. He remembers her short dress. He remembers wanting to fuck her. “Or Brigitte Bardot.” His voice is wistful.

Melisandre smiles: “Brigitte Bardot is hardly understated, Mr Snow, but I will try my best.” She looks at Daenerys. “It shouldn’t be hard to find something for a woman like you.”

Daenerys shyly says: “Thank you.” Her cheeks are still burning. She clings onto Jon’s arm as he leads her further into the building. As Melisandre walks ahead to find them a seat, she stares up at him and heatedly whispers: “Why did you lie?”

Jon glances around to ensure no one is listening to them. There are other couples strolling around, but they are few in numbers. No one is paying them any attention. “How would it look, you shopping with your boss?”

“Well, I am,” Daenerys reminds him. Her lips are pouted. “If you’re ashamed, you should’ve sent me out with Margaery.”

“Miss Tyrell cannot get this kind of expense approved by the company. I can.”

Daenerys chews on her inner cheek. She looks troubled. “I don’t like lying,” she finally says. “This whole situation is embarrassing.”

Out of the corners of his eyes, Jon can see Melisandre approach them. He looks back down at Daenerys. She’s still eyeing him with upset. “I’m sorry,” he finally says, “I thought it would be a nice gesture.”

“I can handle any situation, Mr Snow,” Daenerys says, her voice barely a whisper now, “but I need to be forewarned.” She turns on her heels to smile at the saleswoman as she reaches them.

“All good?” Melisandre asks.

“We were just agreeing on a budget. You know how men can be - always keeping one eye on the price.” Her voice is chipper. She looks up at Jon. “Jon,” she says, her tone warm as she speaks his name. His spine tingles. “Why don’t you take a seat, and Melisandre and I will have a look around? I see a few dresses I’d like to try on. Perhaps you could show me something by Gimbel?”

Jon looks stunned as Daenerys easily steps into the role of a rich housewife and walks off with Melisandre by her side, chattering about all and nothing. He slowly sits down on one of the sofas, glances as the rack of dresses next to him, and wonders: did he just make a dear mistake?

* * *

High heels. Dresses. Hats. Gloves. Gowns. Melisandre flounces behind the curtain. Jon pulls out a cigarette. He’s told there’s no smoking inside. He rolls the filter between his fingers, unlit, and watches Daenerys. The saleswoman parades her in front of the mirrors. She looks shy in velvet. She is stunning in silk. A red chiffon dress makes Jon flush. He stares at her shapely legs. He admires her rounded bosom. He desires her plump behind.

Coats. Bags. Jewellery. Boots. Scarves. There are mini dresses and cocktail dresses and mod dresses and evening dresses. Jon can’t tell the difference. He’s not sure there is one. The saleswoman tries to educate him. Daenerys tries to embarrass him. When Melisandre’s red nails tug at the hemline of a gown, she says:

“Look at how this shapes her legs,” and Daenerys says:

“Yes, Jon, you’re rather fond of my legs, are you not?” and Jon grumbles:

“I don’t know anything about fashion,” and Melisandre says:

“You don’t need to know, you just need to admire,” and Daeneyes agrees:

“Yes, Jon, please admire me,” and Jon begrudgingly stares at her over his unlit cigarette.

Daenerys wears a slim, halter neck dress. The black fabric flows from the empire waist to her tall, rounded heels. Her waist is tied in with a golden belt. It shimmers in the light from above.

Jon gnaws on his smoke. He takes in every inch of his secretary; her shape, her bosom, her small shoulders, her long neck, the dangling earrings, her silver hair. He wants to compliment her. He can only think of what lies beneath the skirt; her stockings, her warm thighs, her wet sex.

The saleswoman takes his silence for disapproval. She holds up a crop jacket. “This will keep the lady warm in the cool summer eve,” she says and drapes it over Daenerys’ bare arms.

Jon waves it away. “No,” he says, making Melisandre stop. Daenerys smiles at him knowingly. Jon feels his cheeks warm, so he clears his throat and adds: “No, it’s good. Just like that.” He leans back on the sofa, eyeing the saleswoman until she pulls the jacket aside, and then cocks his head.

Daenerys does a spin, making the fabric dance at her legs. “Do you like it?” she asks. There’s confidence in her voice but shyness in her eyes. When she stops, her back turned on him and her violet eyes peering over her shoulder, her cheeks have gone quite pink.

Jon could say: you look wonderful. He could admit his desires. The way she looks at him from between her lashes makes his heart skip a beat. He wants to undress her, slowly, the way they do in the movies. He wants to tell her that she makes him parched. Instead, he asks: “How do you feel?”

Daenerys bites her lower lip and looks toward the saleswoman as if for support. “I suppose,” she says, “that it’s a rather beautiful dress.”

“But how does it make _you_ feel?” Jon urges.

Daenerys stares at him. He can see her head spin. She wants to say the right thing, but she looks like she doesn’t know what that is. When she speaks, there’s honesty to her voice: “Powerful.”

Jon smiles. “Powerful,” he says, and he nods a little. He rolls the cigarette between his fingers. He wonders if the Martells will think the same. He decides they’ll have no choice.

Melisandre puts the jacket aside. She looks a bit miffed at the lack of interest in her accessory. She says: “Perhaps a pair of gloves?” and glances at Jon. When he nods, she places her hand on Daenerys’ shoulder and gently leads her to the dressing room. “Why don’t you have a look at the other pair of heels, dear, and I’ll be right back.”

Jon watches Melisandre take off. He sees Daenerys slip behind the curtain. He waits for a moment. Then, he pops his smoke away, shrugs out of his jacket, and heads over past the railings. He listens at the pulled curtain. He can hear Daenerys move about - the heels click as she steps out of them, her skirt rustles as she moves it about. Every sound sends shivers down his spine. He knows he should leave her be. He dives under the fabric instead.

Daenerys’ back is turned to him, but when he straightens up in the small space, she catches his reflection in the mirror. She gasps: “Mr Snow!” Her hands are on her hemline. She’s pulled the skirt up to her knees. He can see her black stockings. She has one foot still inside a heel, the other bare on the carpeted floor. It makes her stand askew.

“Jon,” Jon corrects her. He leans up against the wall, his arms folded, his eyes on Daenerys’ stockings. “Are they new too?”

“You don’t often shop for ladies, do you?” Daenerys asks. She lets the dress drop to the floor, covering her legs. “You don’t try on stockings. You buy them as a pair.”

“It’s a shame. I’d asked Melisandre to have you model a few for me.”

“Mr Snow,” Daenerys gasps again. Her tone is forced scandalised. The look on her face is that of suppressed amusement.

“Jon,” Jon says again. “We’re engaged, remember?”

“You live in a fantasy world.”

“Fantasy is just like advertisement - you glamorise reality.”

“Like imagining a stocking model show?” Daenerys chuckles. She turns and sits down on the bench, and she raises her leg into the air. Her foot peeks from beneath the fabric of the dress. Her toes wave in the air. “Please could my fiance assist me with my heels?” she asks.

There’s a glimpse to her eyes that Jon hasn’t seen before. As he picks up her scattered heel, he relishes the look. “You seem awfully comfortable in all those expensive dresses,” he points out as he kneels onto the floor. He turns the shoe between his hands. These heels are golden, and they glimmer like Daenerys’ eyes. “If I didn’t know better, I’d wager this isn’t your first time in a high end department store.” He slips the shoe onto her foot. It sits perfectly around her shape.

Daenerys wriggles her foot, testing the fit of the shoe. “Is that another fantasy of yours, Jon?” she asks. “Do you imagine I’m acting out my own Roman Holiday?”

“I’m no Gregory Peck.”

“And there are no princesses in Milwaukee,” Daenerys says and puts her feet down. She tugs her knees together and leans onto them as she watches Jon. “This has been fun,” she says softly, “dressing up, feeling pretty. It reminds me of when I was a child. Mother would let me help her get dressed, and I would stare at her in her beautiful gowns and wonder, _Will I ever look like that?_ Ma used to model. I’d say she could still do it, but she insists she’s too old.”

Jon listens. There’s a faint smile on his lips. It is peculiar, he realises, how little he knows about Daenerys. She spoke freely when they met. Since that day, she’s taken care to remain professional. But now the words flow naturally from her lips. She looks happy, he notes. For some reason, it makes him happy too.

Daenerys looks down at her heels. “Lovely,” she says.

“Yes,” Jon agrees, still looking at Daenerys.

Daenerys eyes them a while longer. Then, she pulls her feet out of them and puts them in the box on her right. “Mr Snow,” she says, and she pushes her finger to his lips before he can correct her with _Jon,_ “I appreciate I have played with you, but I am not a silly girl. These things are all too expensive.” She pulls her finger back with a sad smile. “I don’t fantasise. I know I can’t ask for these clothes. Please pick something appropriate, and let’s go back to the office.”

Jon blinks at her. “Well, Miss, which one did you prefer?” he asks. He gestures at the dress she’s wearing. “Surely this one?”

Daenerys shakes her head in disbelief. “These are all brand names. What is this - Yves Saint Laurent? Mr Snow, do you even know the price range of these garments?”

Jon does not. He stays quiet.

Daenerys sighs. She stands up and turns her back to him. “Please can you help me out of the dress?” she asks.

There are many things Jon wants to say. He settles on: “Of course,” and meekly gets up. He undoes the tied neck. He watches the black fabric slip down Daenerys’ shape. She holds it tight to her bosom, keeping her brassiere covered. She watches him in the mirror. Her eyes lock with his. When his warm hands close at her waist, she leans back into his hold.

“Can I ask you a question?” Daenerys says. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“I am not that kind of man,” Jon replies. He doesn’t break eye contact.

A smile flickers on Daenerys' lips. “No,” she says, “you are not.” She pauses. Her hands let go of the dress. The fabric slips to the floor, revealing her body to him; her purple brassiere and her laced underwear and her black stockings and the dark garter belt.

Jon takes in a sharp breath through his nose. His eyes ravish her reflection. He forgets she is real. His hands do not move. Only when Daenerys places her own hands on top of his and leads him to her bosom does he realise; it is happening. He is touching her hot skin. He is seeing her body for the first time.

Jon’s hands cup her breasts. They are soft and warm in his palms. When he squeezes them, Daenerys gasps.

“Do you think about me?” she asks.

“All the time.” The reply comes easy.

Daenerys bites her lower lip. “I said I don’t fantasise,” she says. Her voice is low and husky. It keeps Jon on edge. “I’m afraid I told a lie, Mr Snow.” She turns in his hold. Her face is close to his. He can feel her breath on his lips. He can sense her eyelashes bash to his chin. She peers up at him. “That day you spanked me, I went home early.”

“You weren’t feeling well,” Jon says. His voice is ashamed.

“I wasn’t,” she says, “I was feeling hot and bothered. I thought, perhaps I am getting ill. So I went home, and I laid down, and I realised, _Daenerys, you’re not ill. You’re excited._ Do you know what women do when they’re excited, Mr Snow?”

Jon feels his throat knot up. A drop of sweat drags down his forehead. He holds his breath.

Daenerys’ voice is but a whisper to his lips: “They touch themselves.”

Jon kisses her. She gasps to his lips. It doesn’t stop him; he holds her tight and swallows her sounds and lets his hands drag down her back. He wants her. He needs her.

But he can’t - not here. The moment the kiss breaks, all sounds return to him; the people outside the curtain, the heels crossing the floor, the sound of Melisandre’s voice:

“Mr Snow?”

Jon lets go of Daenerys. She looks up at him with confidence. She licks her thumb and reaches up. She drags it across his moustache. “There,” she says, “no lipstick.” Her thumb is red.

Jon blushes and clears his throat. “There you go, darling,” he says loudly, “the zipper is undone.” He turns on his heels, takes in a deep breath, and then slips past the curtain with confident strides. He hopes the look he sends Melisandre says, _You took your time,_ and not, _I have been a bad man._

The saleswoman stares at him. She hands him the gloves. “I trust you’ll like them,” she says. Her tone suggests he better buy them.

Jon barely looks at them. “I’ll take them,” he says.

“Did you agree on a dress?” she asks.

“Well-” Jon pauses. The curtain is pulled aside. Daenerys steps out in her work outfit - skirt and blouse. Her jacket hangs open around her shoulders. He can tell she’s hurried for his sake.

Daenerys smiles at Melisandre. “You have a lovely selection, but I believe the choice should be my fiance’s.” She looks at Jon. She licks her lips. She says: “Should I meet you back at the office, _dear_?”

Jon swallows. He mumbles: “Sure,” and leans over to give her an awkward peck on the cheek.

“Young love,” Melisandre says.

“Isn’t it something?” Daenerys replies. She smiles at Jon before heading for the exit, her steps calculated.

Jon stares after her. He wonders if he embarrassed her. He wonders if she’s upset. He looks back at the saleswoman.

“Which one?” she asks. She gestures at a rail of all the dresses Daenerys tried on. He counts at least seven, each with matching shoes and bags and hats and jewellery. His head spins. He suddenly can’t remember what any of them look like on her. Which one did she just wear? Which one did he like the best? Which one would make her feel confident? Which one would serve as an apology?

Jon sighs. He waves dismissively at the rack. “The lot,” he says, making Melisandre’s eyes bulge with glee, “but there’s one more thing I need your help with.”

* * *

The air is heavy with rain and heat. Jon sweats in his suit. He paces under the restaurant awning as his eyes scour the street. It is almost seven o’clock. He expects Oberyn and Ellaria to show up at any moment. But it is not the Martells that he’s waiting for.

Jon looks at his watch again. He wonders if Daenerys is deliberately late. He wonders if there’s another strike in Brooklyn. Maybe he should’ve picked her up; as he got in the cab, he almost directed the driver toward lower Manhattan. He imagined walking the bridge into the borough, casually showing up at the door to her apartment. But he doesn’t know where she lives, and he doesn’t want to seem obsessive.

Jon lights a cigarette and blows the smoke toward the clouded sky. Obsessive, he thinks. Maybe he is. His fantasies are all about her. His working day is set around her coming and going. He used to stay late. Now he leaves at five, following at her heels as if he’s in a rush to see her out. He sometimes pretends that they’re heading in the same direction. He sometimes thinks that she is too.

A car pulls up. The driver hurries around the front to open the door. Jon bites down on his cigarette as a pair of shapely legs slip out from the passenger side. Black heels. Sheer stockings. The woman wears a tight, black minidress. The fabric is overlaid with flowing chiffon. When she stands, the breeze drags at it. She looks like she’s underwater. Golden necklace. Dangling earrings. Silver beehive.

Jon pauses. He removes the cigarette from his lips and narrows his eyes. “Miss Targaryen?” he says uncertain. As the woman turns to face him, there is no doubt; Daenerys Targaryen smiles with her perfect red lips and she bashes her dark lashes at him like a movie star.

“Mr Snow,” she says.

Jon tries not to let his eyes roam, but it is difficult. The hemline of her dress rests at her knees. He wonders if the breeze could drag the fabric up a little further. He wonders if she’s wearing a matching garter-belt. He wonders.

When Daenerys walks, the chiffon dances around her shape. She’s clutching onto a small bag. Her white gloves glow against the dark colour of her outfit. “I hope I am not late,” she says.

Jon thinks he would wait all night on this sight. He says: “The Martells haven’t arrived yet.” He snubs out his cigarette with a glance at her feet. The black heels are sharply pointed.

“Do you like how I look?” Daenerys asks and peers up at Jon. There is mischief in her eyes.

Jon wants to say something nice. His mind buzzes. He settles on a simple: “You look nice.”

“You chose so many good outfits. It was hard to decide on one,” Daenerys says. Her gloves tap to her bag. Jon can’t help but imagine what they would feel like against his skin. He wants to kiss them. He wants to kiss her. “You really shouldn’t have.”

“If the company wants you to meet clients, it’s only fair to compensate you accordingly,” Jon says. His eyes rest on her neckline. A small bow ties up the shoulder straps at her nape. If he were to undo it, he thinks, all the fabric would fall to her feet. The thought alone makes his heartbeat quicken. He clears his throat: “Consider it a payment.”

“Is that so?” Daenerys says and cocks her head. “How odd - see, I felt awful receiving so many things, so I asked Miss Tyrell to help me return some.”

At this, Jon’s eyes snap up to meet hers. He opens his mouth, but there is no need - her gaze tells him that she already knows.

Daenerys nods a little, her lips pouted. “Imagine my surprise when I’m told that my dear _fiance_ paid for everything with his own money.”

Jon goes red and swallows. He can’t read her face; she could be disappointed at his pretence, or annoyed at the stinginess of the company. He starts: “Miss, I-” but a cheerful voice cuts him off.

“Jon!” Oberyn shouts the moment he steps outside his car. He briskly walks up and grabs Jon’s hand, shaking it with a warm smile. He’s in a sporty, yellow suit. It is nonchalant. It is modern. Jon hates it at once. “How good of you to meet me again.”

Jon tries not to scoff. “Mr Martell,” he says and forces a smile. “Always a pleasure.”

“Please, call me Oberyn,” Oberyn insists, but his gaze has already slipped to Daenerys. His dark eyes shimmer. “This must be your girl. Now, I’ve only seen you behind the desk, Miss, and I must say that’s a shame. If you worked for me, you’d be decorating the main reception.”

Daenerys goes pink. “Mr Martell,” she says, “I’m charmed.”

“Good - that is exactly what I was attempting to achieve. Ah!” Oberyn turns and reaches out for Ellaria as she joins his side, “Miss, please meet my wife, Ellaria.”

Ellaria is glamorous in green. The empire waist on her halterneck gown gives her height. She stands over Daenerys with a curious smile on her lips. “Miss Targaryen,” she says, “I’m so glad that you could join us. These business dinners bore me.”

“I’m honoured that you’d ask for my company,” Daenerys replies professionally.

Jon stares between the Martells. The way Oberyn eyes his secretary makes him unnerved. He wonders: was it just Ellaria who requested Daenerys’ presence? “Mr Martell, Mrs Martell,” he says and gestures at the door, “shall we?” He attempts to lead them past Daenerys.

Oberyn defiantly offers her his arm. “Miss, I want you to keep count,” he says, “and every time your boss calls me Mr instead of Oberyn, you add five dollars to the waiter’s tip!”

Daenerys laughs. “I am sure Mr Snow means no offence.”

“Still, that won’t do,” Ellaria says. She doesn’t wait for Jon to offer his arm, but simply takes it and smiles at him warmly. “Tonight, we are all friends.”

Jon stares into her eyes and mumbles: “Of course.” But his chest burns. As the four of them walk into the restaurant, all he can think about is how to make the evening end quickly.

* * *

“Did you know that the president celebrated his birthday here?” Daenerys asks as the waiter collects their menus. “Maybe he was sitting at this very table.”

The Pool Room at The Four Seasons is clad in red and gold. A grand marble pool is situated in the midst of the space, and from each corner a green, live tree stretches toward the ceiling. Jon can’t help but wonder if a branch will fall into his dinner. He’s always preferred the Grill Room.

Ellaria grabs her glass of wine. “I didn’t know that,” she admits.

“Ah, who cares about the president,” Oberyn says. His statement draws a few stares from other diners, but he doesn’t seem to notice; he leans in over the table to get a better look at Daenerys. “I’d much rather tonight’s company.”

Jon dips his nose into his own glass of wine to hide his grimace. Since they entered the restaurant, Oberyn has not stopped complimenting Daenerys. If he worried how Ellaria would feel about her husband openly flirting with another woman, he needed not; the woman either encourages his outrageous behaviour or participates herself. Just like now, Jon thinks, as he catches her stare. She smiles at him. He senses he’s being undressed in her mind.

“Perhaps we can take a dip in the pool later?” Ellaria jests as Daenerys looks over at the blue water.

“Oh no, they’d all think I’m pretending to be Sophia Loren.”

“Dear, I have no idea what you’re on about,” Ellaria says.

“She danced around the pool celebrating the premiere of a movie, and then she simply fell in. I can’t imagine how embarrassed she must have been. Maybe she was drunk.”

“So you like movies?” Oberyn asks.

Daenerys smiles: “I like a lot of things.” Her voice is warm. Jon can’t pinpoint if she’s being too friendly. He decides to interrupt.

“Have you given the most recent campaign suggestion any thought?” he asks.

Oberyn looks like he’s tasted something sour. “This is dinner,” he says, “not a sales pitch. Besides, my wife is bored by business.”

“It’s true,” Ellaria says, sipping her wine.

Jon feels a drop of sweat trickle down his back. He can’t go back to the office without having at least tried to settle on an advertisement approach. He won’t let the contract die. “I suppose the women could sit together?” he suggests.

Oberyn laughs in surprise. “You’d give up America’s most desired spot?” he says and gestures to Daenerys whose chair is next to Jon’s.

Jon reddens. “I only thought it’d be more pleasant for the ladies, and then you and I could look at the strategy, Mr Martell.”

“That’s five dollars,” Daenerys chirps and smiles at Oberyn. “He said _Mr._ ”

Oberyn claps his hands in amusement. “Jon! You’re losing the game.”

“I’m losing the will to live,” Jon replies dryly. It’s meant as a warning, but everyone just laughs. He dips his nose back into his glass of wine and sighs. “Okay, _Oberyn_ ,” he says, making sure to speak the man’s name clearly, “if not business, what would you like to talk about?”

“Whatever this lovely lady has on her mind. Presidents, pools,” Oberyn shrugs and smirks at Daenerys, “do go on, Miss.”

Daenerys’ gaze flickers between the Martells and Jon. Ellaria urges her on: “Honestly, dear, my husband can sit through six hours meetings on what bathroom tiles to put in our hotels. Nothing you say can bore him.”

At this, she laughs. She seems to relax a little. Jon can see the air escape her lips. He has another sip of his wine as he expects a story on movies or New York or perhaps shopping. But to his surprise, Daenerys straightens up and speaks in a calm, professional tone:

“Mr Snow is correct to bring up the matter of an advertisement strategy. In fact, Lannister Baratheon has successfully assisted many businesses in not only reaching their customer group through clever segmentation strategies, but also gaining new customers by framing the product differently.”

Jon stares at her. He blinks. He had no idea his secretary even knew what advertisement strategies _mean_.

Ellaria seems surprised too, but her expression soon melts into something different. It’s not annoyance or amusement. It is interest. As Daenerys pauses, she says: “Do you have examples?”

Jon opens his mouth to speak, but Daenerys’ hand slips underneath the table onto his knee. She squeezes his leg, her gaze still set on the Martells. As he remains silent, she speaks: “We have recently done work on Bolton knives. They’re a very known brand for chefs, but they wanted to expand their sales to a domestic setting. Their previous advertisement company marketed their new blades at men. From past research, they knew that men are more likely to buy knives.”

“Seems obvious,” Oberyn says.

Daenerys smiles. “It does - but they were wrong. See, their research was based on hunting knives. The Boltons want to sell kitchen knives. When they came to us, we did new research on the market and were able to tell them that housewives are in charge of buying kitchen items of values under five dollars whereas men would be involved with larger purchases.”

“So advertising to men was a waste of their money,” Oberyn concludes.

Daenerys nods: “We managed to get them onto the correct market.”

Jon wants to ask: “How do you know this?” but he is too stunned to say a word.

Ellaria nods and puts down her glass of wine. “Tell me about Arryn Ale,” she says. “I saw an advertisement for them recently. That was your work, was it not?”

“Yes, Lannister Baratheon represents that brand,” Jon says. “We’ve taken on their low calorie beer.”

“Let her talk,” Oberyn cuts off Jon and points to Daenerys, “it sounds better in her voice.” He winks at Daenerys whose cheeks go a little more pink.

“Mr Snow is right,” she says, “it’s indeed the low calorie beer we’ve taken on, and if I may be so bold, Mrs Martell,” she looks at Ellaria, “the fact that you’ve noticed the advertisement shows that we’ve done our work well. Arryn Ale’s normal customer base is men, but a low calorie beer? Husbands will not be the first to pick them up, but you’d be surprised how many wives are eager for their partner to slim down.”

“Well, I did always wonder if we couldn’t get someone else in our hotels,” Oberyn says, looking at Ellaria. “It’s always businessmen. Do you think there’s another market we could break into?”

“I’d love to have a look,” Jon says.

Daenerys’ fingers close around his hand as she smiles at the Martells. “I can set you up with a meeting with Mr Snow and Mr Greyjoy before you leave the city. How about Thursday next week?”

“Is that enough time to gather all the research?” Oberyn asks, finally looking at Jon.

Jon is not sure. He says: “Of course, anything for you,” and he thinks he means it.

Oberyn and Ellaria smile at each other. “I think that’s enough business,” she says.

“Yes,” Oberyn agrees, and he waves for a waiter’s attention. “Can we get champagne? I want my wife drunk and dancing in your pool before the end of the evening. Just like Sofia Laurel!”

Jon sees Daenerys’ lips silently correct him: Sophia Loren. But out aloud she only says: “What a wonderful idea,” and she looks at Jon with such a glowing face that he can only agree:

“Wonderful indeed.” Perhaps it’s the dress giving her confidence. Perhaps it’s something else. Jon only knows that as the evening carries on with food and drinks, he’s never seen the Martells look so content. He feels it too; Oberyn’s flirty comments become background noise when Daenerys’ warm hand holds his own under the table, and all he can focus on is the feeling of calm spreading throughout his body.

* * *

As Jon lights a cigarette under the awning, Oberyn joins his side. His voice is heavy with the stench of wine, and his cheeks glow red in the lamplight. “They’re just powdering their noses,” he says. “Why do women always do that together?”

“I guess they’re sharing all our secrets,” Jon says.

“Then we’ll be here for a while.” Oberyn pulls his jacket closer around his frame and sighs. The evening air is cool, but the rain has stopped. The wet streets reflect the nearby neon signs. “Your girl is remarkable. The way she talks about business is something else. You have taught her well.”

“Thank you,” Jon says, though his tone carries no gratitude. He can’t figure out how Daenerys heard about all those accounts. He’s certain he has played no part in her learning.

Oberyn takes his lack of enthusiasm for bashfulness. He places a heavy hand on Jon’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “I mean it, Jon - a woman doing advertisement? That’s so new and _forward-thinking_. All this time, I assumed she was just a pretty thing to look at.”

“Most people do,” Jon says. He wonders if that includes himself.

Oberyn’s dark eyes glimmer. “I will be honest with you,” he says. His voice is slurred, and he takes his time to speak each word. “I am sure you’ve heard about our past experiences with Tywin by now.”

Jon tries not to flinch. “It’s been mentioned,” he says casually.

“It’s no secret that my wife and I went into this expecting to wreak havoc. I take no issue with your boss - what is his name again, Robert? But we Martells, we don’t forget, and we don’t easily forgive.” Oberyn pauses. His glare is piercing. When he asks: “Do you follow?”, Jon can only nod.

Jon thinks of his ex-wife. There are things he can never forget. There are things he can never forgive.

When Oberyn continues, his voice softens: “What we didn’t expect was to see good work. You’ve impressed us. And your girl tonight?” He shakes his head with a wry smile. “She’s just something else.”

“She is,” Jon says, unable to come up with anything better to add. He eyes Oberyn. The man is drunk, but he is also glowing. There is something about his tone of voice that suggests to Jon that what he’s saying is not fuelled merely by wine, but also honesty. He licks his lips. He dares to ask: “Is the contract truly a lost cause?”

The man pauses. He eyes the street. For a moment, it looks like he won’t speak. “It was a game,” he finally says, “but now, I think it could be serious.”

It’s not a promise, but it’s enough to make Jon smile around his cigarette. He quickly coughs to hide it. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“The night is still young. We should go to a show.”

“The night might be young, but I am not.”

“Hah! I like you, Jon - did you know that?”

Jon glances at Oberyn. The man still has his hand on his shoulder. As he looks into Jon’s eyes, it slips down his arm. His fingers caress Jon’s muscles through the sleeve. “Excuse me?” he hears himself reply.

“What do you think of Ellaria?” Oberyn asks.

Jon sweats. He feels like he’s in his twenties and attending a job interview. “She’s beautiful,” he settles on, “and very charming.”

“Ellaria and I are also forward-thinking, Jon. You know what the young people do nowadays? They love, uninhibited and free.”

“I told you - I am not young.”

“I think you know what I’m asking, Jon,” Oberyn presses. “I think you and Daenerys should join us for drinks at our hotel.” His hand lingers on Jon’s wrist.

Jon snubs his cigarette out against the wall and blows the smoke upwards, his gaze never breaking with Oberyn’s. “I think you’ve had enough to drink, Mr Martell,” he says.

They stare at each other. The door opens. As the women’s chatter fills the cool air, Oberyn pulls his hand back. “What a shame,” he says and shrugs, “four make better company than two.” He winks at Jon who stares at him silently, then turns to greet the girls: “My two favourite people!”

Ellaria smiles at Oberyn whilst Daenerys walks to Jon’s side. Her face is bright pink. When Jon asks: “Are you okay?” she just peers up at him.

“Tonight was wonderful, but I fear we must be on our way,” Ellaria says and holds out her hand.

Jon gives it a polite shake. “We should do this again.”

“We certainly must,” Oberyn says to Daenerys and leans down to peck her hand. He smiles at both of them before joining Ellaria at the street. A cab has pulled over. The driver rushes out to open the doors. Before slipping onto the backseat, Oberyn calls: “Remember, Jon - it could be serious!”

As the car takes off into the night, Jon feels a tug at his arm. He looks down to find Daenerys’ hands at his sleeve. “Could we walk a bit?” she asks. “I need some air.”

“Did you drink too much?” Jon says. Still, he obliges; he sets off down the street with his secretary at his side, her dress blowing in the cool evening breeze.

“What did he mean, this could be serious?” Daenerys asks.

“They like our business ideas,” Jon says. He can’t help but grit his teeth as he speaks. “They seem ready to move forward.”

Daenerys blinks at him with excitement. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“It’s a fluke,” Jon decides.

“What do you mean?”

Jon hesitates. He could tell Daenerys about his conversation with Oberyn, but it seems grotesque; how can he explain that the man suggested all four of them share a bed in return for an easy deal? _It could be serious._ Jon can’t decide if it’s a threat or a promise. Has he just lost the contract over sex? “Forget it,” he just says, realising that he’s been silent for too long, “it’s complicated.”

Daenerys nods and eyes her feet. She chews on her lower lip.

“Did you have fun tonight?” he asks after a pause.

“Mr Snow, something peculiar happened,” Daenerys says.

“More peculiar than Mr Martell trying to get in the pool?”

Daenerys laughs. Jon likes how the sound of her joy makes him smile. “He was very drunk!” she says, and Jon thinks to himself: yes, he was. “Well, I feel awkward to mention this, but-” Daenerys pauses.

Jon can’t help but look at her with interest. “What?”

Daenerys’ cheeks go red. “When we were heading back out, Mrs Martell, well, she asked, or I suppose _suggested_ , well, that-” She takes a deep breath. The shyness is obvious in her voice when she whispers: “She asked if you and I would be interested in joining them for drinks at their hotel.”

Jon stops in his tracks as he stares at her with bemusement. He must’ve been smiling, because Daenerys looks flustered when she adds:

“No, Mr Snow, you don’t understand - she _said_ drinks, but she _meant_ \- oh, well, I won’t say it out loud!”

“Miss,” Jon says and takes her hands in his. He holds them close as he looks down at her. “Mr Martell asked me the same thing.”

Daenerys gawks up at him. “Mr Snow!” she says, her voice scandalised, but her face changes from embarrassed to humoured. “He did not!”

“He did,” Jon says, trying to suppress a laugh at Daenerys’ shocked tone of voice. “He said that the young love freely. I suppose he presumed it was a convincing argument.”

Daenerys still looks in awe. She slowly shakes her head. “What a dirty couple the two of them make,” she mumbled amused.

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her that I was charmed, but that I simply could not see myself in such a situation,” Daenerys explains, “and that I hope my rejection won’t have any impact on our professional relationship.”

“Oh,” Jon says. He realises that her answer was more put together than his.

“What did you tell Mr Martell?” Daenerys asks innocently.

Jon lies: “I don’t remember,” and pulls her along as he continues walking. “Tell me, how did you learn about all those accounts?”

“I listen,” Daenerys replies a bit too quickly. “You hear a lot when sitting at your desk. Many interesting people pass by.”

“Is that all?” Jon asks. He can’t imagine she’s telling the truth; in all the time Gilly worked as his secretary, she never once picked up on a single brand name they were dealing with. But then again, he thinks, Daenerys seems keen to learn.

“That’s all,” Daenerys agrees and, when Jon starts another question, she stops and gives him a polite, but curt, look. “Mr Snow, with all due respect, you’re the one who told me to manage my post and not have you watch over me, so I am doing just that.”

“Of course,” Jon says. He’s a bit surprised, but he nods at her. “Of course, and you’re doing well.”

“I trust if I wasn’t, you’d be reprimanding me accordingly,” Daenerys smiles. Her voice is sweet. Her eyes, however, tease him.

Jon feels his lips dry. His body itches. “Miss, that’s a rather daring statement,” he says.

“Not as daring as the gift I received,” she points out. Her hands slip to his tie, and she pulls him closer. Jon can feel her breath on his face. “Very naughty, Mr Snow,” she whispers, “to spend your lunchtime picking out lingerie.”

Jon’s heart skips a beat. With everything that has happened that evening, he’d almost forgotten the extra little addition he had the saleswoman help him select. But now, as he stares down at Daenerys, his memory starts coming back.

“Are you wearing it?” he asks. His voice comes out parched.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Daenerys answers.

Before he can stop himself, Jon pulls her by the waist. He drags her past the lamplight, off the main street, and into a dark side alley. He has her against the wall. She gasps to his lips. Her hands slip from his tie to his chest. She touches him. She drags at his shirt. When his hand seeks up her leg, she repeats with a smile:

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Yes, Jon thinks. He hears it in his heartbeat, and in his head. Like a constant buzzing. Yes, he would. Do the black pants shape her round behind, is her bosom snug in the leopard brassiere? Does the black garter belt smell of her perfume, her body, her sex? He sweats. His breathing grows heavier. His hand seeks higher up her leg, pushes at her skirt, drags below the chiffon.

Daenerys’ arms slip around Jon’s neck, and she pulls his face in for a kiss. It is warm, and it is wet. Her tongue meets his in the cold air. They taste of alcohol, and smoke. She smells of peaches. His neck stings with aftershave.

Jon wants to touch her, all of her. He wants to taste her again. He wants to make her moan. He remembers the night he saw her outside the bar. He remembers the couple he spotted on the way home. They were making out in the alley, touching and kissing. His memory bleeds into reality; they are them. They could be them. As his hand brushes against the top of her stockings, he thinks that he could hold her, fuck her, make love to her right there and then.

But Daenerys slaps his hand. When he blinks at her in surprise, she smiles wryly. “I’m a good girl, Mr Snow,” she says. Her breathing is quick, but she still leads his hand out from beneath her skirt and drags it to her lips. When she kisses his knuckles, her eyes glimmer. “I’m not just someone you can take when you please.”

Jon swallows. “I didn’t think so,” he starts, but he goes silent.

Daenerys slips free from his arms. She corrects her skirt and checks her hairdo whilst eyeing him. There is amusement to her smile. “If you want me,” she says, “you have to earn me.”

“How do I do that?” Jon asks before he can stop himself.

Daenerys bites her lower lip as she backs her way out of the alley. Her eyes call him along. He finds himself following her with need. His body itches. He is hard from her stare alone. “You’re a clever man, Mr Snow,” she says, her voice heavy with temptation, “I’m sure you’ll find a way.” She turns on her heels, making her dress dance around her legs, and she eyes the street as she asks: “Can you get me a cab?”

Moments later, as Daenerys waves at him from her cab, the driver speeding toward Brooklyn, Jon tries to clutch onto the last feeling of her heat in his hand. He tries to let his fantasies take over; he imagines dragging off her pants, and holding her to the wall, and unzipping his trousers, and fucking her with need.

But, Jon realises, even his heated fantasies seem petty when compared to reality. His body longs for the sight of her in the changing room, and the touch of her hand under the table, and her warm, wet kisses. As he heads down the street, his steps long and calculated, he finds himself unable to enjoy his made up memories. He wants reality. He wants _her_.

And, he decides, he’s going to find a way to make Daenerys his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was hell to research. I ended up browsing old photos of Saks to get a feel for the layout and their uniforms, and reading way more than I cared to about the rise and fall of The Four Seasons. But I got there in the end! I really hope I managed to convey a sense of reality - after all, even Mr Snow himself has found reality is much better than fantasy!
> 
> Thank you so much for all your continued support on this collaboration. I can't believe there are only three more chapters left! It'll be a sad day when I post chapter 9... for now, I hope you've enjoyed the chapter, and that you'll like what comes next. We're going to do a bit more of digging into Jon's past. Hope to see you all next Sunday!


	7. Lost in the city

Jon brushes a fleck of dust off his cufflinks and turns in front of the mirror. It’s the simple American look for the simple American man: single-breasted suit in muted blue, skinny tie, shiny black Oxfords. He expects the Martells to be glamorous and aloof. He wants to be the voice of reason; not dry like his accountant Varys, but just as clever. He needs to close the deal. If they delay again, he thinks, he should just fire them as clients. He’ll accept the consequences. He’d much rather have Robert shout at him than sit through another pointless meeting.

Jon rubs his cufflinks one more time. “What do you think?” he asks his dog and turns on the steps to face the living room. From beneath the table, Ghost flips over on the carpet and gives him a blank stare. Jon throws out his arms. “Am I respectable?”

The phone rings. It’s new, and wall-mounted. Ghost almost looks relieved - the dog gets up and trods off to his bedroom as Jon answers: “Hello.”

The voice on the other end is brisk: “Daddy’s gone missing.”

Jon pauses. “Sansa?” he asks. It has been two years since he last saw his sister. He remembers her as pale and polite. Her voice was always a shy whisper. Now, her tone is curt.

“Who else, Jon?” she asks. He can hear other voices in the background. They sound frantic. “He’s gone.”

“Since when?”

“This morning.”

“How did he escape?” Jon asks. He leans against the wall and balances the phone onto his shoulder as he corrects his shirt sleeve. “Who was keeping an eye on him?”

“Do you think I run a care home?” Sansa replies. “You know how independent he is. He doesn’t like when we make a fuss.”

“He’s got dementia, Sansa. You’re obliged to make a fuss.”

“You don’t have to tell me. When’s the last time you saw him?” she asks. Her voice is heated. Before Jon can interrupt, she continues: “I need more than two hands to count the amount of times I’ve had to bathe him in the last month. Ma can’t do it anymore, Jon, she’s not strong enough. So don’t talk to me about how to deal with Daddy.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Jon sighs and bites his teeth together. In his head, he tries to remember the last time he _did_ see Eddard. He’s not certain. He knows they spoke on the phone last Christmas. It was a short conversation. His father couldn’t recall who he was. “He’s gone on walks before. He always comes back.”

Sansa hesitates on the other end. He can hear her move around. A door closes. When she speaks, her voice is lower: “He’s been looking at photographs. We found the old albums all over his bed.”

“Fuck.” Jon runs his hand through his hair and closes his eyes. He peels the phone free of his shoulder and turns to stare at his reflection. Moments ago, he looked tense. Now, the colour is draining from his cheeks. He leans his forehead against the glass. It is cool on his skin. “Family photos?”

“Mh-hmm.” Sansa mumbles in agreement.

Jon breathes out. The mirror fogs in front of him. “I’ll find him,” he says, “I’ll go now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. I’ll find him. I’ll bring him home.”

There’s a pause. For a moment, Jon wonders if Sansa has hung up. Then he hears her sob. “Thank you,” she says. She takes in a deep breath. He can sense how her lips shiver when she speaks: “I haven’t told Ma. She knows he’s gone, but I hid the photos. It’d break her heart. It always breaks her heart.”

As his sister cries, Jon looks at his shoes. The leather shines so brightly that he can almost see himself. He spent a long time with his kit this morning making sure every detail was perfect. He really wants that contract. He thinks of the Martells. He thinks of Daenerys. He tries to think of anything but what’s sure to come. “Of course,” he says again, “I know.”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa says. “It’s not easy for you either.”

“No,” Jon says. He checks his watch. He’s already running late. “I’ve got to call work. I’ll let you know as soon as I find him.”

“Thank you.”

Jon hangs up. He stares at the phone. His eyes feel sore. He takes in a deep breath. He dials the number to the office. He paces the floor in front of the mirror.

Daenerys’ voice is bright: “Good morning.”

He stops her before she can get further into her greeting: “It’s Jon. Look, there’s an issue.”

“Mr Snow?” Her voice is immediately alert.

Jon loosens his tie. “I’m going to be a bit late for the meeting. I need you to get everything ready for me.”

“Of course. What do you need?”

“The folder is on my desk. Get that to the meeting room, and have Mr Greyjoy set up the guys’ work. When the Martells come in, just keep them entertained. Whatever they want - coffee, drinks, you know how it goes.”

“Of course, Mr Snow. When should we expect you?”

Jon looks at his watch. He thinks about how large New York City is. He says: “I should only be a few minutes.” Even before he’s hung up the phone, he knows it’s a lie.

* * *

As Jon drives through the city, he tries to guess his dad’s mind. It’s a warm day. The sky is clear. The pavement simmers with heat. A reasonable man would buy a drink and sit in the park. But Eddard Stark is not reasonable.

Jon stops at a red light and rolls down his window. The noises from the street fill his Cadillac Coupe de Ville. He can smell restaurants, and the people. He lights a smoke. He glances in the rearview mirror. It’s askew. He reaches up to correct it, but he pauses when faced with his own reflection. At once, he hates what he sees. He imagines his beard trimmed. He imagines his hair thick and auburn in colour. He imagines his face to be more square and his eyes to be piercing blue. He imagines he’s his brother Robb.

The car behind him blares its horn. Jon pushes the mirror into place and sets off down the street, the wind dragging at his hair, his eyes unfocused. “I need to find him,” he mumbles, lighting a cigarette as he turns corners at random. He scours the streets, the alleys, the cafes. He blows out smoke and whispers: “I need to find him.”

Does his dad still look the same? Jon remembers him from his childhood. Eddard was broad and strong. His face was long, his eyes dark, and he always bore a grave expression. But, Jon knows, he was always kind. His dad never once raised his hand to any of his kids - his booming voice was enough to send all the children scattering to the wind.

Jon rolls the smoke from one side of his lips to the other and narrows his eyes. There’s something in the distance. There, just past McCann on third avenue, looms a crowd of people. They’re chanting. They’re holding signs made of paper. The closer he gets, the more he can see. Youngsters, Jon thinks, and a lot of them. The men are wearing fringe vests and headbands and jeans. The women are in long dresses and their hair blows freely in the wind. Their signs read: PEACE, and: LOVE NOT WAR.

Jon slows down. A line of police officers stand at attention. One of the men turns as he sees him coming and waves him aside. As he parks onto the curb, the officer pushes up his hat and leans in to look through the window. “Sorry, Sir, this road is closed.”

Jon pulls out his cigarette and gestures at the crowd. “What’s happening?”

“They’re protesting the war. They’re on their way to the United Nations Headquarters. It’ll be a while.”

“You don’t say.” Jon watches the people trudge by. They move slowly, the group of people expanding and collapsing at pace. The psychedelic colours on the women’s dresses bleed into one. It’s almost mesmerizing to stare at. “I’m looking for someone. They’ve gone missing.”

“Well, Sir, half the city’s in there,” the man says, looking at the crowd. “Is it your daughter?”

Jon tries not to grimace. “It’s my father. He’s got dementia.”

“Have you filed a report?” When Jon shakes his head, the officer says: “You should go to the station and and do that. This is a big city to search on your own. We can put out a call, but we’ve got to have the information first.”

“Thank you, officer,” Jon says dully. He pops the smoke back between his lips and watches the crowd as he mulls over his next step. It won’t be the station. They’ve never once managed to track down Eddard before he got to him.

The officer rests his hand on Jon’s open window as he too watches the youngsters. “I’m proud of my country, you know? I say: you either love it, or you leave it.”

Jon glances from the people up to the man. He licks the taste of tobacco off his lips. “Have you ever been at war?” he asks.

The officer shakes his head. “No, Sir.”

“It shows.” Jon opens the door and steps out, forcing the man to move aside. He puts on his hat as he asks: “Would you mind if I have a look?”

The officer looks between Jon’s suit and the Cadillac. He then tips the brim of his hat back and waves dismissively. “I’ll give you a minute,” he says.

“Thank you.” Jon pops his hands into the pockets of his trousers as he sets off down the street, his eyes scouring the crowd. There are flowers, and smiles, and couples holding hands. There are shouting and chants. Someone carries the flag of the United States. Someone holds up a baby doll covered in red paint. Jon averts his eyes and ducks into the stream of people.

Everyone moves steadily. Jon follows along. He tugs the brim of his hat further down to cover his eyes as he looks through the group of students in front of him. They’re chatting amongst themselves. He hears snippets of their conversation:

“-force you to kill. How is that a national duty, to kill?”

“Did you hear about Keyes? He burned his draft card.”

“My dad would beat me if I did that. That’s the American spirit, right? Beat them into submission.”

“That’s the American GI.”

Jon shudders. He pushes around the group of men and further ahead. This is the worst place for him. Still something carries him along. He follows the sound of chanting as it gets louder. At first, it’s disorganised: calls for peace, and anger with imperialism, and pleading for the soldiers’ return all mix into one. It sounds like a debate. The many voices remind Jon of street preachers, one louder than the next.

Shoulders bump. Words whip the air with heat. They’re getting closer to the end of the street. Jon can smell excitement in the crowd. The faces around him flush. The voices grow stronger - positive with hope, full of demand. He doesn’t like the shouting. He doesn’t like the pushing. He edges his way toward the outside of the crowd, but everyone just seems to move quicker. Feet move. Arms move. Lips move. In the back of his head, a memory resurfaces:

He’s in his twenties, he’s scared, and he’s running. His uniform is tattered. His chest burns. He thinks: I am going to die, I am going to die, I am going to die.

A strong voice snaps him back to reality: “-ungrateful kids! You should be ashamed, you should all be ashamed!”

Jon is sweating. His cheeks are cold and clammy. He wipes his face off in his sleeve as he breaks out of the crowd, his eyes focusing on the shouting man. He’s an elderly gentleman dressed in an old brown, wool suit. His beard is greying. His brown hair looks dull. But there’s a fiery passion to his voice that Jon recognises. Even from afar, Jon knows at once that he’s looking at his father, Eddard Stark.

Eddard’s hands are closed into fists, and he’s waving them in front of three young men who are flushed with annoyance. “My sons fight for you! How dare you say it’s for nothing - how dare you!”

“We told you, man - we’re here for the Vietnam war.”

“Don’t take me for a fool - there is no war in Vietnam!”

Jon throws his smoke aside as he hurries toward his father. Other protestors have stopped to watch. Their faces are a mix of amusement and ridicule. Jon makes sure to look at each of them, determined to remember them. He boils with anger and embarrassment.

“I’m proud of my sons! They’re risking their lives for your freedom. Don’t you pretend it’s nothing! What have you ever done with yourselves?”

“How’s my freedom connected to killing babies in Vietnam?”

Eddard’s face goes bright red. “I told you,” he says, his voice shaking with rage, “there is no war in Vietnam! My sons are in Korea! You’ve read about that in your fine college books? Korea!”

Before the men can reply, Jon grabs his father’s arm. “What’re you doing?” he asks. His voice is curt and breathless. He stares between Eddard and the students.

“Who’re you?” one of the guys asks. He’s the tallest and broadest of the bunch. He sends Jon a snooty look.

“I’m his son,” Jon says.

“Aren’t you meant to be in Korea?” The men snicker.

Jon slips his arm around Eddard’s shoulders and tries to pry him away from the crowd, but the man stands his ground. He gives Jon a hard stare. “They think there’s a war in Vietnam!” he says.

“Come on, Dad,” Jon says, “forget about them. Let me take you home.”

“No! I can’t go home. I am visiting.”

“Visiting who?” Jon asks, but Eddard keeps looking back at the students. He’s finally moving, but his steps are slow and hesitant.

“Is there a new war?” he asks. His voice is confused. “They say there’s a new war. Do you think my sons will be sent there?”

“I’m your son,” Jon says patiently.

“No,” Eddard says. His voice is not malicious. It almost makes it harder to hear. “No, you’re too old. They’re in their twenties, you see. Fine young men. They’re fighting communism, and how do these people thank them? Bah!” He scoffs at the students. “You should be ashamed!”

“Bye old man!” The men wave and laugh amongst themselves as they slip back into the crowd.

Eddard shakes his head, but he walks with Jon. His every other step is stiff. He has a limp. “The world never changes. When I was in the war, I thought it was the last. World War Two, we said, that’s enough. One was plenty, but two is enough. Now it seems there’s a new conflict every day.”

Jon doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to say. He just guides Eddard with his arm. His shoulders look small, he realises. His father’s posture is stooped. Aging is reversing, Jon thinks. Soon he’ll be a babe again, small and wrinkly and in the need of a woman’s care.

Eddard gazes up at the sky. He blinks against the sharp sunlight. “It’s a beautiful day,” he says.

“Why are you in the city?” Jon asks. “Who are you visiting?”

“My good friend Robert! You might’ve heard of him - Robert Baratheon is his name. He runs a very famous ad agency. I don’t mean to brag,” Eddard swiftly adds and sends Jon a knowing look, “but he’s got a position open in the creative department, and it’s perfect for my son.”

Jon peels out a smoke. When Eddard sees it, he asks:

“Can I have one?”

“Does Sansa let you smoke?”

“How’d you know my daughter?” Eddard stops and lets Jon light him a cigarette before they continue, casually strolling along the moving group of protesters. They’re walking in the opposite direction. There are less people here toward the back, and they’re quieter. Jon feels more at ease. “It’s my wife I need to mind. Are you married? Find yourself a good Christian woman, but not too faithful - then they’ll never let you do anything.”

Jon can’t help but smile a little. “You’ve always been good,” he says.

“It shows, doesn’t it?” Eddard asks. He taps ashes off his smoke and coughs. “Do you know the Baratheon agency? I went to their offices by the Chrysler Building, but they’re no longer there!”

“They moved in the fifties after the merger.”

“What’re you talking about?” Eddard laughs, but there’s some strain to his voice. “Today is a strange day.” He smokes his cigarette, and Jon does too, lingering in the quiet between them.

Jon can feel a tension in his chest. He wants to talk to his father. He wants to never talk to him again. Part of him just wants to walk with him like this, in silence, smoking cigarettes and pretending that they’re just enjoying the sun. But his nape prickles. The strap of his watch gnaws at his wrist. He doesn’t dare to check the time. He knows he’s very late. “Dad,” he says, “I’ve come to take you home.”

Eddard’s brows wrinkle. “I don’t know what your deal is,” he says, “but I’m not your father.”

“I’m bringing you back home to Sansa and Catelyn.”

“Catelyn! So you know her too?” Eddard mulls over Jon’s words for a moment. “No, that won’t do. I need to see Robert. I need to know about that job, you see.”

“It’s done,” Jon says, “I’ve already got the job.”

“No, for my son.” Eddard’s voice is exasperated.

Jon just sounds tired as he says: “I am your son.”

“Look, he’s very talented. He’ll do well in creative, everyone knows that. He’s got a good head on him, my boy.”

“Dad-” Jon takes in a deep breath. He turns on his heels and grabs a hold of Eddard’s shoulders, and he holds him in place as he looks into his eyes. Eddard’s face is flushed with confusion. Jon is feeling tired. “I’m Jon. I’m your son. I work for Robert Baratheon.”

Eddard looks at him for a long time. The smoke between his lips burns bright. Ashes drop to the ground. “Robert is going to hire Robb,” he then says.

“Yes,” Jon says. He stops. He feels a burning sensation in his throat. It’s dragging its way through his body like acid. He feels like throwing up. “Yes, Robert was going to hire Robb, but he hired me.”

“Why would he hire you?” Eddard asks, but Jon can already tell that he knows. Something is coming together inside his father’s head, and it’s making the old man’s eyes well with tears.

“Because Robb died,” Jon says. His voice is quiet. He’s not sure if it’s for his father’s sake or his own. He has to speak slowly not to stumble over his words. Bile is building up inside of him. “Robb died in Korea, Dad. It’s been over fifteen years.”

“Robb is in Korea,” Eddard says. His voice is stubborn. “You people know nothing.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Jon says, and he suppresses the urge to run away. He wants to just leave Eddard on the street and go to work and pretend nothing has happened. But his brain is whirring. Memories flicker before his eyes once more:

He’s in his twenties, he’s scared, and he’s running. His uniform is tattered. His chest burns. He thinks: he’s going to die, he’s going to die, he’s going to die. Robb is on the ground. But it’s not Robb anymore, because Robb was bright and kind and strong. The thing on the ground is just some body.

Jon’s hands slip from Eddard’s shoulders. “Let’s go home,” he says. His voice is but a whisper. Eddard stares at him with tears running down his cheeks. But his father nods. When Jon crosses the street, he follows behind him.

The officer is still waiting by Jon’s car. As he approaches, he straightens up. “I said a minute,” the man says, his voice authoritative. “It’s been almost half an hour.”

“Sorry,” Jon mumbles. He walks to the passenger side and opens the door for Eddard. He waits patiently as the man slowly limps his way over.

The officer looks on with boredom. “So you found him?” he says. “What’s he doing protesting the war?”

“He wasn’t protesting,” Jon says.

“My sons are in the war,” Eddard mumbles. He doesn’t sound certain anymore.

“I can forgive students, but a man your age?” The officer shakes his head. “Shameful.”

Jon’s eyes are burning. As Eddard silences and takes a seat, Jon walks around to the driver side and stops in front of the officer. He stares into his eyes. “That man,” he says, pointing through the window at his father, “he fought in World War Two, so if you want to give him anything, it should be gratitude.”

The man flushes. “I didn’t know,” he says meekly. His posture is no longer confident. When Jon reaches for the driver side door, he steps aside and lets him take a seat. “I couldn’t know,” he says again, watching Jon starting the vehicle, “I support our army. Of course I do.”

“You should support our soldiers instead,” Jon says curtly, “in coming home alive. My father was lucky - my brother, however, is just another casualty that you can take pride in. Do you even know his name?” He glares at the man who remains quiet. “Of course you don’t.” Jon rolls the window back up, kicks the accelerator, and swirls around on the street as he takes off in the opposite direction of the protest.

Eddard watches his feet for a while. It’s not until they’re going downtown that he looks toward Jon. His cheeks are still wet, but he’s smiling. “You gave him hell, son,” he says, and he catches Jon’s eyes with a sense of pride. “Boy, you gave him hell.”

Through his anger and sadness, Jon feels something else surface. A faint feeling of comfort. He reaches over and grabs his father’s hand, and he holds it tight as he sets off out of the city toward the Stark family’s home.

* * *

It takes them an hour to get to Greenwich, Cos Cob. The neighbourhood is green, and the houses are big. As Jon turns a corner, he reaches over and grabs the cigarette from Eddard’s hand. “I don’t want a lecture,” he says and throws it out of the window. After a pause, he gets rid of his own one too. The vehicle reeks of smoke. He rolls the window down completely and lets the dry wind bash their cheeks red.

Eddard brushes dirt off his trousers and corrects his suit buttons. “It’s good of you to drive me home,” he says.

“Of course.”

“I don’t like the city. It’s too big. I can walk the whole damn thing and not recognise a single man. But here I know my neighbour, and he knows me, and that’s community, kid, that’s what it’s all about.”

“You know Robert,” Jon points out, and Eddard laughs.

“Yes, and Robert knows everyone who’s worth a dollar. Did you know that he and I used to skip classes together?”

Jon blinks. “I didn’t know that,” he admits. He glances between the road and his father. “I thought you met during the war?”

Eddard shakes his head with a grin. “No, we go way back. We were inseparable - always up to the same tricks, fancied the same girls. War just brought us closer together. It’s odd, isn’t it? Fighting tears men apart, and it stitches them back up.”

“Some wounds never heal,” Jon mumbles.

“The wound of the heart?” Eddard asks and, when Jon doesn’t speak, he says: “The wound of the head is incurable. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Jon slows down. The vehicle edges its way down the avenue. He looks at his father. “What do you mean?” he asks. “What’s with the head?”

Eddard looks at Jon with a somber expression. “It’s all fading away, son. Some days I don’t know the man who looks back at me in the mirror. I’m fifty, I think, only I am not. It’s a blessing to forget, Catelyn sometimes says. It’s a blessing, because forgetting is easier on the heart than remembering. But she doesn’t understand. No one understands.”

Jon swallows. His throat feels dry. He asks: “What don’t we understand?”

“I feel like I’m sinking into darkness. I fight it, but it’s stronger than me. I don’t want to forget, Jon, I don’t want to forget my son.” Eddard’s lips tremble.

Jon stops the car and turns in his seat, facing his father with a white face. “Dad-” he starts, but Eddard shakes his head.

“You miss him. Everyone misses him. That’s the blessing - to remember, and to miss. But I’m forgetting, and that’s a curse worse than anything.” He wipes his cheeks off in his suit. The wool shines wetly in the sunlight.

“But you’re not forgetting him - you’re just-” Jon is at a loss for word.

Eddard grabs Jon’s hands and holds them in his own. His eyes glimmer when he catches his gaze. “Don’t comfort me,” he pleads. “The heart should feel, son, it should feel it all - pain and love and sorrow and joy. So I’ll cherish this moment, even when I’m upset, because I know it’s real.”

Jon takes in a deep breath. He looks down at their hands. Eddard’s hands are grey and wrinkled. His blood flows blue beneath his thin skin. Jon’s palms, in comparison, are flushed pink. The contrast is unbearable. “Let’s go home,” Jon says, and Eddard nods and pulls away.

“Let’s,” he agrees.

The mansion is at the end of the avenue. Jon easily parks in the large driveway and gets out, his eyes gazing upon the building. It is grand, with a large porch and four thick pillars holding up the roof. It’s old but freshly painted white. He remembers it being yellow when he was a kid. Things change, he thinks and walks to open the door for Eddard, only he wishes things would change for the better.

His father gets out. When he straightens up, one hand on his bad leg, his eyes meet his. Something in his gaze has changed. “Thank you,” he says. His voice is curt. “How much do I owe you?”

“Owe me?” Jon asks. He doesn’t get further; a shrill voice cuts through the air.

“Daddy!” The front door swing opens and Sansa, tall and red and bright in her baby-blue dress, rushes down the steps. She swings her arms around Eddard’s neck, and Eddard pulls her in for a hug as he laughs:

“My girl! It’s only been a few hours.”

“Don’t just leave like that - don’t!” she scolds him, but her voice is full of relief, and there’s little anger to be found in her big eyes. She holds her father at arm’s length as she takes him in from top to bottom, inspecting every detail.

Jon closes the passenger side door. “He’s fine,” he says, “I found him at the protest.”

Sansa looks confused. “Protest? Oh, not the Vietnam one!” she begs, and she shakes her head as Jon nods. Her red hair bounces around her shoulders. “Daddy, that’s only likely to upset you.”

“Never mind that,” Eddard says and waves his hand toward Jon. “Pay the man, Sansa, and let’s have lunch.” He nods at Jon and moves around Sansa, slowly limping his way up the steps to the porch.

Jon watches him go with a gloomy feeling in his chest. “He doesn’t remember me,” he says. “He knows you, but he doesn’t know me.”

“I’m here all the time,” Sansa says. She looks back at Jon and sighs: “Don’t give me that look, I meant no harm.”

“Sure,” Jon mutters. He lights a cigarette. He’s already forgotten that he meant to keep up appearances. He blows the smoke toward the clear sky and sighs. “Just a minute ago, we had this- I don’t know what you’d call it, _profound_ conversation. But now he’s just treating me like a cab driver.”

“He grieves, Jon. That’s what the doctor says. After Robb’s funeral, there’s been this disconnect in his brain. The doctor says it’s natural.”

Jon wants to say: There’s nothing natural about it. But he catches Sansa’s sad face, and he just nods. “Alright,” he says, pretending that he means it. “Doc’s got the degree, and I haven’t.”

“He loves you, really. He talks about you all the time.”

“Don’t try to make me feel better.”

“He goes to the golf club and tells anyone who cares to listen: Jon is going to make it big.”

“Not big enough to work for Robert,” Jon says.

Sansa gives him an impatient look. “You got the job, didn’t you?”

“At what cost?” Jon has another drag of his smoke. He’s not sure why he’s arguing. Something has irritated him. He feels restless. Perhaps it’s Cos Cob, he thinks. There are too many memories on this patch of land. He oughts to head back to the city.

It’s like Sansa can read his mind. “Before you go, I’d like to give you something,” she says, “for safekeeping. Do you have a minute?”

“Not really,” Jon says, but he remains by the car as his sister goes back inside. A few minutes later, she returns with two heavy photo albums nestled in her arms. Jon gives them a hard stare as she hands them over. “That’s the last thing I need.”

“No, it’s the last thing Daddy needs,” Sansa says. Her arms are shivering from holding the albums out to Jon, but she keeps pushing them at his chest, urging him to take them even when he does not lift his hands. “Please, Jon, whenever he looks at the photos of Robb, he goes missing.”

“Can’t you hide them?”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” Sansa’s lips are strained by now.

Jon finally relents and takes the albums in his hands. “I won’t look at them,” he says.

“I didn’t ask you to,” Sansa replies. She rubs her arm. There’s gratefulness in her eyes. “Thank you,” she says, “for bringing him back. I know you’re busy.”

“It’s family,” Jon says, though he can’t help but check the time on his watch. He’s not late - he’s very, _very_ late. “Shit.”

“You better get going,” his sister replies.

Jon gets in the car and throws the albums on the seat next to him. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat. With Eddard home, other concerns can finally fill his mind: what’s happening with the Martells, are they all still waiting for him, will they drop the contract and cause a fuss? The idea of being publicly humiliated by Robert makes him sweat. He normally wouldn’t care, but after seeing his father’s proud face, he’s not sure he can bear to burn that bridge.

Sansa leans in through the window. “You can always visit,” she says. There’s a tinge of hope to her voice. “Just drop by for dinner one day. You can bring a date if you want to.”

“I’ll think about it,” Jon says. He pecks her cheek and then rolls back out of the driveway. As he sets off down the avenue, he can see her wave in the mirror. He doesn’t wave back.

* * *

It is late in the afternoon by the time Jon rushes into the office. There is sweat on his upper-lip. The humidity has made his hair curl. He draws the hat tighter down around his locks as he walks past the conference room. Through the big glass doors, he can see that it’s empty. There is not even a cup of cold coffee left behind; the space has been cleared and cleaned.

Daenerys sees him from afar. She’s standing before he reaches her desk. “Mr Snow,” she says. Her face looks relieved. “I was worried about you.”

“Where are the Martells?” Jon pulls off his hat, remembers his hair, and puts it straight back on. Daenerys’ keen hands hang in the air, empty. “Did they leave?”

“Are you okay?”

“What?” Jon can hear the blood rushing in his ears. His eyes dart around the office. It is odd, he thinks, that most of the secretaries’ desks are empty. On the other side of the open space, he can see Nan fiddling with her typewriter. Else there’s just the two of them. “Where is everyone?”

“Celebrating,” Daenerys replies. Her gaze is fixed on him.

Jon wipes his face off in his sleeve. He leaves the blue fabric soaked. “Celebrating?” he asks. Nothing she is saying is sinking in; his heart is beating, and his breathing is hard, and his cheeks are buzzing. When she opens the door and leads him to his sofa, he follows as if in a daze. “Celebrating what?”

“Let me get you some water,” Daenerys says, and she leaves him slumped against the backrest.

Jon sits in the quiet and listens. There are sounds that he recognises - the hissing from the tap in the kitchen, and the pitched sound of glass clinking together, and the low rumble of chatter. But there is a strange simmering of excitement too. Somewhere, someone cheers, and someone claps, and feet stomp the creaking floorboards as if a riot is about to take place. It sounds joyous.

Jon’s lips close around a chilled glass. Daenerys stands before him. She leads his head back as he swallows. The water is ice cold. It clears his head like a warm shower in the winter. Jon coughs and pushes her hand aside, breathing in through the droplets. “Thank you,” he says.

Daenerys smiles. She takes a seat next to him on the sofa, her legs crossed at the ankles. “Do you feel better?”

Jon licks his lips and nods. His head is still spinning, but his heartbeat is slowing down. “Yes,” he says, “yes. Thank you, Miss.”

“Where were you?” she asks.

Jon eyes the ceiling. A fly crawls across the lampshade. He mulls over the last few hours. Somehow, it feels like days have passed since he spoke to Sansa on the phone. Too much has taken place. He feels ten years older.

Daenerys takes his silence for disapproval. “I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to pry,” she says.

“A simple family matter,” Jon settles on. It’s the truth. He grabs the glass off the table and empties it. Every gulp of water makes him more awake. He sighs and smacks his lips, watching the afternoon light fall through the shape of the glass. “You said they are celebrating?”

“Can’t you hear?” Daenerys chuckles and lifts her head as she too listens to the distant noise. She looks wistful. “The Martells loved it, Mr Snow, they really did.”

“So they’re not upset?”

“I think they were surprised to find you gone. Mr Martell-” Daenerys pauses. She tries to suppress a smile as she continues: “Mr Martell thought you might’ve been absent on purpose. He thought he was at fault. He apologised for his behaviour last week, said he didn’t intend to make anyone _uncomfortable._ ”

Jon shakes his head. He can’t stop a small smile from taking over his lips. “They’re something else,” he mumbles and puts the glass back down. “I wish I’d been there to apologise. I shouldn’t have left them waiting. It was unacceptable. When did they take off?”

“They left hours ago - I’m sorry, Mr Snow, I tried to reach you at home, but no one picked up. I didn’t know where else to call.” Daenerys bites her lower lip. Her chin sinks closer to her chest as she eyes him. “I hope you’re not upset with me.”

“I’m upset with myself,” Jon assures her.

“Family should come before work,” Daenerys points out.

Jon thinks of Robb. “Sometimes they’re one and the same,” he says, quietly. He pulls up his sleeve to check the time on his watch. “Where are they all, upstairs?”

“It’s just us girls and the interns left,” Daenerys says. “Mr Baratheon asked most of the guys to meet him at Roosevelt Hotel for a meal and drinks.” She pauses, then adds: “Mostly drinks. He told me to stay and let you know the moment you came back. I’m sure they’d like to congratulate you.”

“For what? I wasn’t even there!” Jon shakes his head in disbelief. “I still don’t know what happened.”

Daenerys smiles a little. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Mr Snow, you do look like you could do with a drink.”

“I could,” Jon agrees, “but not with them.” He gets up and holds out his hand for her. Daenerys takes it with a peculiar look on her face. “I know a place,” he says as he helps her up, “would you care to join?”

“Are you sure?” Her face flushes, but she looks happy.

“I wouldn’t ask if not,” he replies.

“Let me call a cab, Mr Snow,” she says and heads for the door, but Jon stops her:

“No, I’ve got my car parked downstairs. Miss-” he tugs at her hand until she turns back to face him. His expression is sincere. “You’re not my secretary now. You’re- I don’t know. Just, please don’t call me Mr Snow. Call me Jon. If just for tonight.” He looks into her eyes. He can tell he has caught her off guard. His mind dashes back to his father - how Eddard barely recognised him from a common driver. He’s tired of keeping up appearance; he longs for a connection.

There is a tense pause. Then Daenerys nods. “Okay,” she says. She takes in a deep breath through her nose as if building up courage. “But then you have to call me Daenerys, too.”

“That’s fair,” Jon says, before adding: “Daenerys.”

She smiles through her blush. She looks at their hands. She only slowly lets go. “Then lead the way,” she says.

* * *

The White Horse Tavern is not yet busy. A few men smoke at the bar. Two women share a late lunch by the window. Jon heads for the corner table and pulls out the chair for Daenerys. She sits down with a grateful smile.

“Is Rheingold okay?” Jon asks before placing the two photo albums down on the table. He couldn’t bring himself to leave them in the car. He notes that Daenerys peers at them, but she doesn’t say anything, and he decides not to mention them before returning with two glasses of beer. “They’re from my sister,” he explains as he sits down. “Part of that family matter.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Daenerys assures him.

Jon lights a cigarette whilst watching her. It’s weird, he realises, how little they know about each other. Maybe she’s thinking the same thing; as she gingerly sips the beer, her violet eyes keep darting back to the leathery albums, and he can see that her interest has been piqued. Somehow, it makes him happy. “Here,” he says, reaching over and opening one up, “have a look at this.” He flips pages until he reaches a black and white photograph; it’s from 1950 and shows him in his uniform. He smiles proudly at the photographer, his black hair cropped and his chin freshly shaven.

Daenerys laughs as she takes it all in. “That’s you?” she asks. “Oh my, you were a handsome young man.”

“What do you mean, were?” Jon asks, but he’s laughing too.

“You look really happy. Like you were meant to be a soldier.”

“I was so frightened my teeth wouldn’t stop chattering,” Jon says. “My father fought in the world war. When he came home, my siblings and I begged him to tell us everything. He told us the good - the friends he’d made and the funny things he experienced. The bad he saved for my stepmother.” Smoke escapes the corners of his lips as he eyes the photo in thought.

“How’d you find out?” Daenerys asks.

“My brother and I would sneak to their bedroom at night, and we’d sit outside the door and listen as he told her the real stories. He saw some horrible things, my old man. Some really awful things.”

Daenerys looks from the photo to Jon as he speaks. There’s something in her eyes. She’s not just listening, he thinks. She’s really taking in what he says.

Jon clears his throat. It’s almost embarrassing being watched so intensely. “I was looking for him today,” he says, “that’s why I was late. He got lost in the city.”

“Because of his dementia?” Daenerys asks politely.

Jon blinks at her. He drops the smoke from his lips. “How’d you know?”

“You told me,” she says in earnest. “That night I helped you home.”

“I did?” Jon tries to recall the night, but the events were blurry then, and time has made them almost disappear from his mind. He just remembers kissing her. The touch of her wet lips against his own stayed with him for days. “How odd.”

Daenerys has a sip of her beer as she gestures at the album. “May I?” she asks and, when Jon nods, flips the page. On the other side is an almost exact replica of the photo, only this time it’s Robb who’s peering back at them. “Who’s that?”

Jon feels his eyes sting. “That’s my brother,” he replies. His voice is quiet. “Robb.”

“Was he in Korea with you?”

Once more, Jon finds himself blinking at Daenerys. “You know I was sent to Korea?” he asks before seeing the look on her face. He grimaces around his cigarette. “I said a lot of things that night, didn’t I?”

“I’m sorry, I have a good memory,” Daenerys replies with a faint smile.

Jon has a drag of his smoke. He wonders what else he said. He wishes he could remember. “Yes,” he then agrees, “he and I went together. We were both scared, but we were also excited. It sounds strange, doesn’t it? Being excited about war. But our father was always proud of the role he’d played, and he wanted the same for us. I suppose we thought we’d stay out of battle and have a few fun stories to tell when coming back.” He goes quiet.

Daenerys puts down her beer and watches him for a moment. Then she reaches over and grabs his hand. “You don’t have to tell me,” she says.

Jon wraps his fingers around her palm. He’s finding it hard to look at her. He just stares at her pink knuckles and soft fingers and trimmed nails. “My father’s memory started failing him after the war,” he says. “Selective memory, the doctors called it. A coping mechanism of sorts. But he was still the same man. Quieter, but still the same.”

Daenerys’ hand squeezes his. “Jon,” she says.

When he looks into her eyes, she appears blurry. “Robb didn’t make it,” he says and shakes his head. “We never got a body to bury. I think that’s what broke my father. That he couldn’t even see his son.”

“I’m sorry,” Daenerys says, and she sounds it. “That’s terrible.”

“I wasn’t there when it happened. But sometimes I feel like I was, you know? It’s like I’m seeing things through his eyes. I know it’s just my imagination, but it feels real.”

“My brother was in the war too,” Daenerys says, “and he’s said the same thing. That he has all these images in his head, and sometimes he knows it’s real, but other times he’s not sure. Stories become memories, and memories become stories.”

“That’s very profound,” Jon says with a small smile.

Daenerys smiles too. She hesitates, but then reaches up to wipe his cheeks. Jon didn’t even realise that they’d gotten wet. “I’ve never seen you like this,” she says softly.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, and he feels angry with himself. He should be stronger than this. “I’m acting a fool. Forget it.” He moves to let go of her hand, but Daenerys’ fingers dig deeper into his palm, and she holds him tight.

“No, you’re not,” she says, “you’re acting like someone who’s had a tough day. Relax, Jon,” she smiles and cocks her head sweetly, “I’m not here to judge. In fact, I’m honoured.”

“Honoured?” Jon looks perplexed. “Why?”

“Because you’re opening up to me,” she replies. “I appreciate it.”

Jon looks into Daenerys’ eyes, and she looks back at him; sweet, and happy, and caring, and kind. He closes both hands around hers and clears his throat. “So, tell me,” he says, eager to move on to another subject. This one just makes his heart flutter. He finds it hard to concentrate. “What actually did happen today with the Martells?”

Daenerys looks surprised at the question, but she also can’t quite hide her excitement. She scoots to the edge of her seat. “Well,” she starts, “I did as you told me to: I served them drinks, and we chatted.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Nothing of importance. Just what they thought of the city, and where they were going next. They invited me to stay at their resort in Hawaii. I mean, they asked _us_ to stay.” Her face glows.

Jon can’t help a chuckle. “I’m sure they did.”

“When you didn’t show,” Daenerys continues, picking her words with professional care, “they asked us to go ahead. Mr Greyjoy presented your work, talked through the research, all of that. He really was very good.”

Jon wants to scoff. He manages to keep it in. He’s seen Theon present; too keen, too chatty. He’s never as slick as he thinks. “Okay,” he merely says, “and they liked our new idea? Focusing on the family segment of the market?”

Daenerys looks away, and he can see she’s pondering over her own words. “They thought it was interesting,” she settles on.

Jon raises his brows. That was not the reply he expected. As he watches Daenerys squirm, he slowly asks: “So they bought an idea they thought was _interesting?"_

“Not exactly.” Daenerys chews on her lower lip and looks anywhere but at Jon. “They went with the original idea. The one with the businessman and the staff. _Good company is guaranteed._ ”

Jon feels his throat heat up. “Theon presented my old idea?” he asks. The anger in his voice must have been obvious, because Daenerys shrinks in her seat.

Her hands slip free of his own. He immediately misses her touch. “Not exactly,” she says.

“You keep saying that,” Jon points out. He snubs his smoke out in the ashtray and gives her a hard stare. “Come on, Daenerys - just tell it as it is. Theon sold my old idea, didn’t he?”

“Not Mr Greyjoy,” Daenerys says. She looks even smaller now, like a mouse cornered by a cat. When she speaks, her voice is a whisper: “I did.”

“What?” Jon leans in closer. He thinks he heard her, but he can’t be sure. Did she say-

“I did,” Daenerys repeats, her voice shaky but louder. She finally looks him in the eyes once more, her own face one of defiance. “I told them that it was the best idea yet, and that they would be stupid not to use it.” She pauses. “Not in those terms, of course.”

Jon is so baffled he can’t even look angry. Rather his expression is one of disbelief. “You,” he says, slowly, “sat down in a client meeting and, in front of Theon, sold the Martells - the _Martells,_ the two people who would never agree to _anything_ \- my old idea?”

“I modernised it,” Daenerys replies.

Jon can barely look surprised anymore. “You modernised it,” he repeats.

“They wanted another segment, but families weren’t it. They said - and I’m sorry, Jon, but I agree - that selling to both businessmen and families would be sending a mixed message. Instead, I suggested businesswomen.” Daenerys pauses.

Jon is not sure whether her silence is for effect, or if she’s trying to gauge his reaction, but when he doesn’t speak, she continues:

“She’s on the sofa, looking professional and happy, and there are these staff members around her, like a handsome waiter and a chiseled pool boy. So both ads can run at the same time, and they mirror each other - businessman and businesswoman. The modern world.”

Jon has a big gulp of his drink. He puts down the beer, looks at Daenerys in bewilderment, and then has another gulp. When he slams the glass back down, she peeps:

“You hate it?”

“It’s brilliant,” Jon admits.

Daenerys’ eyes brighten. “You really think so?”

“You sold that - right in front of Theon?” Jon asks. “What did he do?”

“Not a lot,” Daenerys admits. She looks uncomfortable at having to say it. “He tried to stop me at first, but Mrs Martell insisted that he let me speak. So I did.” She looks down at her shoes with a smile. “And they _loved it,_ Jon, honestly. They said it was just their kind of thing.”

“You don’t say,” Jon smiles, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it - here I’m talking of war, and you just landed your first contract. We should be celebrating!”

“None of that, please,” Daenerys says, embarrassed. “It was your idea.”

“The concept doesn’t matter - the execution does,” Jon says, and he looks at her with glowing eyes. He feels it, something he hasn’t felt since he first started with the company. It’s a sense of excitement. A sense of real accomplishment. When he looks at Daenerys, he sees himself - young and inexperienced but full of willingness. He almost can’t believe that she’s the same shy girl he greeted as his secretary a few months back. “You should be proud of yourself,” he says.

Daenerys grins shyly. “Thank you,” she replies.

“Why didn’t you go with the guys? You should be having drinks with Mr Baratheon.”

“It’s okay,” Daenerys says dismissively. “It’s not a place for girls.”

“Nonsense - we should go right now,” Jon says and stands up.

Daenerys places her hand on his arm and urges him back down. “Jon,” she says, “I don’t want to go. This is nice. I prefer this.”

Jon looks into her eyes. “Did they tell you not to go?” he asks. Daenerys doesn’t reply, but she gives him a pleading look. He can see himself reflected in her begging violet.

“It’s not for girls,” she just repeats.

Jon wants to argue, but he backs down. “Okay,” he says and holds up his hands. Remembering how the other guys normally talk to Daenerys, he can’t find it in himself to press the issue. “But let’s at least go somewhere nicer. Anywhere you want to go.”

“Anywhere?” Daenerys asks, looking up at him.

“Of course,” Jon says and picks up the albums. He tucks them under his arm. “Anywhere. This is your day, Daenerys - whatever you want.”

“I know somewhere nice,” Daenerys says as she stands up. She corrects her dress. Her demeanor has changed - she seems nervous. “It’s in Brooklyn.”

“I can drive us,” Jon says and shrugs, “it doesn’t matter.”

Daenerys peers into Jon’s eyes. “It’s my place,” she clarifies.

Jon feels all other noise around them disappear. As he stares at her, he holds onto the albums more tightly. If he lets go, he thinks, he’ll fall with them to the floor. “Your place?” he repeats, quietly.

Daenerys bites her lower lip. “I can make coffee,” she says, “I can make something stronger too.” And her hands push forward, brushing his tie in a familiar manner.

Jon feels his throat clench. Since they first met, she’s never approached him, he realises. He’s always been fantasizing, and pushing, and asking in his dreams. He’s been wanting to hear those sweet words from her lips again and again.

But today, he was just proud. He was just so happy for her, so happy to be with her, that reality triumphed fantasy. He never imagined he needed more, nor that he could have it. Yet there she stands, offering him a peek into her private life, and it’s nothing like he thought it would be. He’s not nonchalant, charming, and brisk. Instead, he’s nervous. He feels the emotion fill his body, churn his stomach, redden his cheeks.

Daenerys looks like she’s about to speak when Jon finally says: “Okay.” He swallows. Then, with a hesitant smile, he offers her his hand, and she takes it. “Okay,” he repeats, squeezing it, “that sounds nice.”

As they leave the tavern, hand in hand, Jon thinks that it _does_ actually sound nice. It’s like his father said: the heart should feel. Pain and love and sorrow and joy. And perhaps, Jon thinks as he looks at Daenerys, happiness too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favourite chapters to write - and I really hope you liked it too! Both Ned and Robb have been mentioned in passing before, but I was grateful for the change to dive a bit deeper into how they've affected Jon. The art was of course the main thing that broke my heart.. that drawing of Robb looking back at Jon from the mirror? Ugh, Dragonanddirewolf, way to kill me!
> 
> Thank you so, so much for your continued support! Your comments are absolutely lovely, and I still can't believe how well you've received our little collab. Thank you! I've been a bit slower getting back to you all as I've taken a little summer break from work and focused on relaxing 100%, but now it's back to work (ugh) so I'm ready to dwell back into Jonerys. Can't wait to hear what you all thought of this chapter!
> 
> Coming up next... we'll see!


	8. A truth uncovered

By the time they cross the Brooklyn Bridge, Daenerys’ confidence has mellowed. Her happy chatter subsides and every other word out of her mouth is an apology.

“I’m sorry it’s so far away,” she says, and Jon assures her:

“It’s no problem,” but she continues:

“I don’t think I hoovered this morning,” and he repeats:

“It’s all good,” but she persists:

“Maybe we should go to O’Rourke’s instead,” and he stops at a red light and turns to her. Daenerys is flushing. It could be the heat. The windows are open, and the hot afternoon breeze fills the car along with the sounds of the city; whirring vehicles, yelling students, chattering couples.

“Daenerys,” Jon says, “if you’ve changed your mind, just say so.”

“It’s not that,” she insists, her hands wringing in her lap.

Jon peels off his shades. The sun shines into his eyes. He blinks against the sharp light as he watches her. “I can take you wherever you want,” he says, “you don’t owe me an explanation.”

“Oh Jon!” Daenerys twists her fingers until they turn pink. She sends him a tired look. “I’m embarrassed, can’t you tell?” She peels at her skirt and, unable to keep her hands still, reaches for her handbag. “May I smoke?” she asks.

“Of course,” Jon says. As the light changes to green, he continues down the street. His gaze flickers between the road and Daenerys.

She lights a cigarette. She blows out smoke. A tinge of calm comes over her face. “I can’t believe it,” she says. There’s laughter to her voice. “I’ve invited my boss to my cheap, crammed apartment. I don’t even have a view, you know? The windows face the street, and all you can see are bars and billiard rooms.”

“My windows face the street too,” Jon interjects.

Daenerys sends him a wry smile. “No, Jon, your windows face a balcony,” she says, “and from that balcony, you can see the whole city.”

“Only part of it,” Jon mumbles, but he doesn’t disagree. His fingers on the wheel are slippery with sweat. The air around him is humid. At the next light, he shrugs out of his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. “I always preferred the view from my house.”

“You have a house?” Daenerys’ voice is part curious, part exasperated.

“It’s on Long Island,” Jon explains. “My father bought the place after he returned from the war. Levittown. He imagined one of his kids would start a family there.”

“It’s quite the commute.”

“But it’s peaceful, and just what you need after dealing with the kind of clients we get.” He sends Daenerys a knowing smile which she returns. “It’s the garden that I miss. Not even sitting in it, just watching it from the kitchen window.”

Daenerys blows out smoke. “So why do you live in the city?”

“My ex-wife won’t move out,” Jon explains. His teeth are gritted.

“I’m sorry,” Daenerys says quietly.

Jon sighs. He sends her an apologetic look. “No, I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know why I keep doing this, talking about my brother and then my ex-wife. You don’t need to hear that.”

“I already told you - I’m glad you’re opening up to me.”

“Yet I know nothing about you,” Jon says, “other than you being from Milwaukee, that is.”

Daenerys has a last drag of her smoke as she gazes up the brownstone they’re passing by. “Well,” she says, her voice tinged with nervousness, “you’re about to see a whole lot - that’s my place there.”

They park on the street corner. Jon doesn’t bother with his jacket; the moment he steps out of the car, he feels his face wetten with sweat. As he walks around to open the door for Daenerys, he glances at the brown, five-storey building and wonders if she’s got air-conditioning. He hopes she’s got whisky.

“Thank you,” Daenerys says as she steps out. The hem of her green paisley dress flutters in the breeze. She hesitates for a second, watching the building before them. Then she withdraws a set of keys from her handbag, takes in a deep breath and says: “Let’s go.”

“You make it sound like a military mission,” Jon points out, making her laugh.

“It feels like it every time I climb the stairs,” she jests. “It’s on the top floor.”

The stairs creak with every step. Jon can hear the sounds from the other apartments around them. A smell of food lingers in the air. Someone is listening to the radio. The cackling from the transistor carries all the way to the top floor. As Daenerys unlocks the door, Jon listens to the latest baseball game being narrated. It reminds him of being young; living with friends in run down neighbourhoods, throwing parties every night, pretending things would never change.

Although, Jon thinks as the door swings open and he steps inside, he and his friends never managed to keep their place _this_ neat.

“I’m sorry about the hoovering,” Daenerys says, reverting to her apologetic self. She reaches for Jon’s hat before realising that he doesn’t have one. With her cheeks red, she waves him into the living space. It’s painted pale purple and the furniture is teak. “We normally clean on the weekend.”

“It’s fine,” Jon says. He tries to spot the dirt. He only sees a few pillows thrown astray and an empty bottle of wine on the table. Daenerys sorts both in a hurry. “It’s a nice place.”

“Please don’t lie to make me feel good.”

“Have I ever?” Jon looks at Daenerys who grows more red.

She bites her lower lip and shrugs. “It’s not too bad, I suppose. Most girls share a room, but Margaery and I have got our own.” She pauses. “It sounds silly when I say it out loud, though.”

“That’s nice,” Jon says.

“Yes,” Daenerys agrees.

They look at each other. There’s a tense feeling in the room. Daenerys shuffles on the spot. Jon picks at his cufflinks. They both know why they’re there. Neither of them can find the courage to say it.

Daenerys is the first to break the silence. “Would you like a drink?” she asks, and Jon quickly agrees:

“Yes please.” He feels relieved, and Daenerys looks eager to have a task. As if she’s back at work, she chirps:

“It’ll only be a second,” before she disappears into the kitchen with the empty wine bottle.

Jon breathes out. “Relax,” he tells himself as he loosens the knot in his tie. “You’re acting like a child.” Still he can’t seem to calm down. His heart races. His mind is fuzzy. It’s been a weird day, he reminds himself, and he stalks to the window. It’s cracked. He pushes it open, allowing some air to bash across his red face.

Jon tries to remember the last time he went home with a woman. Then he tries to forget. After all, Daenerys is not just _some woman,_ he reminds himself. She is young, and vibrant, and smart. She is innocent and tempting. She’s his secretary, and he’s her boss.

Daenerys returns with his drink. “It’s not Canadian Club,” she says as she hands it over, “but it is whisky.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Jon says as he takes the glass. “Thank you.” When she gestures at the sofa, he sits down, and he patiently waits for her to return with her own drink before having a sip. She pauses in the kitchen doorway, watching him with a peculiar look. He blinks at her. “What?”

“It’s just so odd to have guests,” she says. “It suddenly feels more like a home.”

“Do you not normally have people come over?” Jon asks. He can’t help but wonder; has a boyfriend sat where he sits now?

Daenerys smiles wryly. “I know what you’re alluring to, Jon, and the answer is no. I told you - I’ve been a good girl.”

“Since when?” Jon teases. He still feels relief fill him.

“Since always. My father is very strict.”

“That was not the answer I was expecting,” Jon admits.

Daenerys laughs and sits down next to him. It’s a three person sofa. The seat between them is enticing. Jon has to stop himself from scooting closer to her. Instead, he remains still and watches her light another cigarette. “Well, he’s very traditional. I suppose men of that age are.”

“What age would that be?”

Daenerys just smiles at him. She rolls her neck back as she blows smoke toward the ceiling. “I never told him that I got a job in the city. Maybe he thinks Ma is sending me cash.”

“Would he not approve?” Jon asks as he sips his whisky.

Daenerys shakes her head. “He thinks a woman should marry and live for her children. And don’t get me wrong - I love children, and I’d love to have children. But is that all there is to a woman’s life? I don’t believe so.” She looks at him, her face expectant as she asks: “Do you think that makes me a horrible person?”

Jon smiles a little. “Remember how I mentioned my sister Sansa? The one who gave me the albums? Well, she’s done everything according to the book - married young, moved in with her husband, tried for children.”

“My father would love her,” Daenerys sighs.

“But my younger sister,” Jon continues, “Arya, she’s turned all expectations on the head. She lives in some hippie community now in the countryside. But she’s happy, just like Sansa is happy.” Jon empties his glass and puts it down on the table. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is that we choose our own happiness. Just like you did today when you shut up Theon.”

Daenerys laughs. She tugs her legs up under herself as she leans against the backrest, watching him with care. “You know, my father would be cross if he knew I’d invited home a divorced man.”

“What about your boss?” Jon asks. He too turns to look at her. The seat between them seems to have grown smaller, he realises. They’ve both inched closer. The air between them is getting warmer.

“Mhm, that wouldn’t sit well either,” Daenerys replies around her cigarette.

“Can I have a taste?” Jon says, gesturing to it.

Daenerys blinks, but she offers him her cigarette. “Sure.”

Jon takes the cigarette in one hand, but, before she realises, places his other on her cheek and pulls her in for a kiss. It’s short, but it’s tender; he tastes a flicker of cigarette ashes, he smells her peach perfume, he feels her surprised gasp to his mouth. When he pulls back, she peers at him through half-closed eyes, her violet eyes gentle. Jon licks his lips. “Thank you,” he says, and he raises the cigarette to his lips for a drag. He never breaks eye contact.

Daenerys chuckles a little. She leans her cheek into his hand. “You’re a tease,” she whispers.

Jon blows smoke to the side and drops the cigarette butt into his empty glass. It fizzles in the remaining drops from his whisky. “Can I have another taste?” he asks.

Daenerys doesn’t reply. Her hands dig into Jon’s hair, and she drags his curls between her fingers as she leans in for another kiss.

This time, there’s more heat to it. Jon can feel how she urges herself closer, and he lets his arm drag around her, pulling her in as he deepens the kiss. He can taste her - smoke, alcohol, mint - and he can smell her - perspiration, peaches, hairspray - and he can feel her - the small of her back, the rounding of her arse, the smoothness of her legs.

Jon leans forward. Daenerys leans back. The sofa groans beneath them, but they persist. Soon, he’s atop of her, and her hairdo is coming undone against the pillows, and his shirt is damp from the heat, and her skirt is folding at her thighs. Jon’s nails tease, pull, and pinch at her stockings, the sheer fabric like a teasing layer between him and her. Daenerys’ hands drag, fumble and tug at his shirt, her movements eager to undress him.

They’re keen, and they’re excited, and they’re running out of space on the narrow sofa. Still, Jon doesn’t break the kiss until the top of his head bumps hardly against the wooden armrest.

“Are you okay?” Daenerys gasps. She stops with her hands halfway down Jon’s chest, his shirt pulled open by the buttons.

Jon shakes his head to get rid of the dull pain. “I’m fine,” he says. He’s breathless, and parched, and the only thing that will ease his thirst is the taste of her wetness. He looks at her. His eyes are dark with desire. He tries to clear his throat to speak. “I’m fine. Are you okay?”

“I didn’t hurt myself,” Daenerys replies. She reaches up and gently brushes his hair with her fingertips.

The caring way in which Daenerys touches him almost puts Jon over the edge: he wants to fuck her until she can’t walk, or make love to her so tenderly that she’ll melt. He can’t decide. He can’t find the words to speak.

Daenerys kisses the hair on his chin and slowly lets her hands drop to frame his face. “I need to powder my nose,” she whispers, “let me show you my room.”

“Okay,” Jon says, feeling at once disappointed and grateful. He gets up with difficulty, his groin throbbing with obvious need. He stands, partially dressed, his hair ruffled and his cheeks ruddy. But he offers her his hand like a gentleman at a bar, and Daenerys - hair hanging everywhere, skirt askew, lipstick on her chin - takes it and stands like a proper lady.

Daenerys corrects her dress and says: “This way,” and Jon follows as she walks them to a room behind the kitchen. She opens the door and waits for him to enter. “I’ll be right back,” she says, giving him a long look before she slips off.

Jon glances around the space. It’s clearly Daenerys’ style - from the pale cream walls to the flower-patterned bedding, the white vanity dresser with the golden mirror and the heavy books stacked on every shelf. He reads the titles. He glances at the framed photographs of people he doesn’t know. He tugs the white curtains closed. He stares at her bed. He could sit, but the moment he touches the soft bedspread he decides against it. It would look too aggressive, he thinks. Instead, he hooks his thumbs into his belt and tries to position himself in a nonchalant lean against the windowsill.

Jon is nervous. He’s not sure why. He’s spent months fantasising about Daenerys, and he has already touched her, and kissed her, and even tasted her. Yet his heart beats quickly, and he can’t seem to breathe. He blames it on the hot air. He knows that’s not the cause. He tells himself: don’t be preposterous. When a woman powders her nose, it can mean a multitude of things. She could be getting them drinks. Maybe she’s finding some food.

Or perhaps, Jon thinks as the door opens and Daenerys slithers back inside, all his fantasies are about to come true.

There she stands, cute and small, in a pale pink nightgown. The chiffon flows freely from her neckline, the fabric ending just by her knees. She looks shy and uncertain. Her hand on the handle shakes a bit as she pushes the door shut. “Sorry to have kept you,” she says.

“You look stunning,” Jon says in earnest.

Daenerys’ cheeks glow, but she seems pleased. “You think so?” she asks, swirling a silver lock of hair around her fingertip.

The mere movement makes Jon’s fingers itch for a touch. He leans back against the bed, his previous inhibitions about it gone, and he gestures for her to come closer. “Come here,” he says. His voice is husky.

Daenerys bites her lower lip and slowly crosses the carpet. The gown dances. Her eyes peer into his. She sways her hips a bit more than necessary.

Jon can feel his nostrils flare. As she pauses in front of him, he reaches out and places his hands on her waist. The chiffon is cool to the touch. As his palms drag down across her sides, he tugs the fabric in, admiring her full shape. His fingertips tease the hemline. He asks: “May I?” and Daenerys smiles and wraps her arms around his neck, tip-toeing her way to his lips as she breathes:

“You may.”

Beneath the cool fabric, Daenerys’ skin is burning. She gasps when he touches her inner thigh, and his breathing shivers across her face. Their lips hover. They taste each other’s breath. She has brushed teeth - Jon can taste the toothpaste, the smell of mint strong in the air. When he kisses her, he wonders if she can taste him too; ashes, alcohol, excitement. It boils inside of him. He finds it hard to hold back.

Daenerys pushes on his shoulders, making Jon slump down to sit on the edge of the bed. She nestles between his legs, her breathing hard as she deepens the kiss. Her tongue searches his mouth. Her hands tug at his curly hair. As her legs rub to his groin, Jon moans into her mouth:

“Oh fuck.” He is hard. Her body is soft against his. He wants to take her, and he knows he could - he could flip her over, push up her skirt, and sink into her wetness. It would be easy to fuck her like in his fantasies. His body would be strong and hard atop of her, his movements rough.

But he wants her to ask it, he wants her to lead him, and so, when she pushes forward, he lets himself sink back into the duvet as she climbs over him.

Daenerys lips drag down across his beard. She pecks his Adam apple. Her hands brush open the last buttons of his shirt. “I’ve thought about this,” she admits, her voice but a whisper. She drags his shirt open and lets her palms roam his pecs, her fingers dipping between his abs. “Ever since that night. I’ve thought, _What if we just fucked._ I wondered how you’d do it.”

Jon shivers under her. It is peculiar, he thinks, to be touched, and wanted, the way Daenerys touches and wants him. He hasn’t felt so on edge in years. He lets his fingers drag her skirt up further, around her arse. His hands clasp to her full buttocks. Through the line of her pants, he can feel them jiggle at his touch. “How did you want me to do it?” he asks.

Daenerys pauses and looks into his eyes and, for a moment, he wonders if he’s said the wrong thing. Then she smiles. Her teeth rest on her lower lip. Though her voice is shy, there is a cheekiness to her eyes. “The same way you look at me,” she says, “with pure greed.”

Jon rolls them over with ease. Daenerys gasps in surprise as she’s suddenly on her back, her silver hair spread across the pillows, her violet eyes tinted with excitement. “Like this?” he asks, his hand rubbing up between her legs. His rough fingertips dip into her pants. They are wet to the touch.

Daenerys moans and arches her back. “Yes,” she says, her cheeks red, “like that.”

As Jon rubs her, she moves beneath him. She is not passive to his touch; her hands search his back, and his sides, and his belt. They undo his zipper. They dip into his trousers. He groans as her small hand closes around his member. He is stiff in her palm, and warm.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Daenerys breathes. She looks into his eyes as she strokes him, her face pure with pleasure.

Jon’s fingers dip beneath the fabric of her pants, roam her sex, sink into her wetness. She moans and closes her eyes. Her cheeks flush with excitement. “If you ever want me to stop-” he starts, but Daenerys doesn’t let him finish. Her free hand digs into his hair, and she pulls him down for a kiss. It is breathless, and damp, and more addictive than his whisky.

When Daenerys breaks the kiss, it’s with a moan - Jon’s fingers have stroked a sensitive spot inside of her. “The only thing I want you to stop doing,” she says, “is talking.”

Jon could laugh. Away with precaution, he decides - she wants him, and he wants her. He has no doubts left to fight, and even less patience to keep him contained. When he pulls his hand back, he is soaked. He wonders if Daenerys can smell her sex the way he can. It makes his heartbeat quicken. If she wasn’t watching him so intensely, he would lick his fingers. His tongue still remembers her taste - sweet and metallic all at once.

“Come,” Daenerys urges, and she pushes herself back a little, her head sinking down onto her pillows. She pulls her knees together and rolls her pants off, the wet fabric falling to the floor somewhere on her right. She shyly pulls at his open shirt. “Get undressed for me.”

Jon settles on the bed and pulls his shirt off, kicks away his shoes, slips out of his trousers. His eyes are on her the whole time, and her eyes are on his body, watching, staring. He is naked before her, for the first time. In the bright room, he can’t hide - the last of the sun is still streaming through a crack in the curtains, and the light falls across his nude body.

If he was younger, he would be embarrassed to have a beautiful girl look at him the way Daenerys is. But age has worn down his worries, and he briskly stares back at her, with his scars and hair and marks.

Daenerys holds out her hand. Jon takes it. She leads him; back to her, back atop of her, back between her legs. His cock pushes to her sex. Her hands close at his face. As he takes a hold of her hip and sinks into her, she whispers: “Kiss me,” so he does.

Jon kisses her, and he rocks into her, and he feels how her body responds. She wants him. She needs him inside of her. Her hips roll up to meet his shallow movements. Her fingers drag through his beard, then onto his shoulders. She holds onto him as he takes her.

Daenerys is tight and warm. Her sex closes in around him. It’s like she guides him deeper, and he follows. His rocking is slow at first. He wants to focus on feeling her, and on how she feels as he’s inside of her. He can taste her moans on his lips, and the sweat on her cheek, and when his head drops to her ear, he can hear her gasps out loud.

“Oh God,” she gasps, and her toes curl. “Oh God, Jon, don’t stop.” Her voice is heavy with pleading.

Jon rocks into her at a steady pace. He is sweating too, and when he breathes in, he can taste the perspiration on his lips. It’s salty. She is sweet. He licks up the scent of her perfume from the dip of her collarbone, keen to have all of her and leave nothing behind. His cock throbs. His body heaves.

Jon soon realises that can’t keep the pace going. He is too needy. His speed picks up. His cock takes her at pace. As Daenerys gasps and moans and squirms to meet his movements, he thinks: fantasy cannot compare to this. He knew it the moment he first kissed her. Nothing would ever be the same, and nothing has.

Jon is heavy, and Daenerys is light. As he fucks her deeper, she sinks further into the duvet, swallowed up by the softness around her. The bed rocks. Jon’s fingers dip into her pale skin. He holds her by the waist and hip. He kisses anything he can reach - her chin, and neck, and nose, and brow, and forehead, and ear, and lips. He kisses her lips the most. With wet, hard, needy kisses, and slow, deep, patient ones.

“Touch me,” Daenerys whispers, and her eyes roll back and close as her legs rise to his hips. “Please touch me, Jon.”

His name on her lips is a whisper. It sends bolts through Jon’s body. He could come. He holds back. He slips his hand from her waist to between her legs, and when he next pushes in, his thumb starts rounding her nub. His mere touch earns a groan from her, so he does it again. He follows the movement of their fucking. He can feel how she’s tensing around him. It’s like when he licked her. She is building up, he realises as her head tips back and her lips strain. She’s about to come.

When she comes, her orgasm rolls through her body like a wave. He feels it on his hand; how she wets his fingers, then tightens around his cock. It makes him groan. He is still buried inside of her, but her body is no longer welcoming him with ease. It’s clenching up, and dragging at him. It only takes him a few more rocks for him to come.

Jon is spent. Daenerys is shivering. As he sinks down on top of her, she groans and wraps her arms around him. He is still inside of her when he rolls them onto their side and hugs her close. She is sweaty. So is he. They lie on the damp bed, quietly breathing, the room dipping into darkness as the light outside seems to disappear.

After a moment, Daenerys nestles her nose to his chest. She leaves a kiss on his pecs. “Will you stay?” she asks. Her voice is quiet.

Jon glides his hands through her hair. The locks are soft, and slip between his fingers with ease. “I’d love to,” he says, and he doesn’t need to look at her to know that she’s smiling. He can feel it to his skin, the way her lips hover his beating heart. When he thinks about it, he realises that he’s smiling too. He feels happy. Inside of her, with her body pushed to his, and his arms holding her tight, he has everything he wanted. They don’t need to speak, or do anything. He’s content, and he senses that she is too. So they remain in silence, just breathing and kissing, falling asleep in the warm evening air.

* * *

The rain wakes Jon. He hears it hammering against the window. The curtains flutter. A cool breeze is blowing outside. Electricity crackles through the air - a thunderstorm is coming.

Daenerys is still asleep. Her back is turned to him, her arms wrapped around her pillow, her lips parted in a low breathing. Jon watches her for a moment. She looks peaceful, and perfect. The pink chiffon of her gown has ridden up over her buttocks. He could touch her, and lick her, and take her again. His cock stirs at the mere thought. He covers her with the duvet and gets out of bed.

The room looks different in the grey morning light. Jon notices new things; the magazine cut-outs of advertisement plastered to the dresser, the Avon peach perfume creme, the black heels from Saks. He gets dressed in front of the vanity mirror. His movements are slow. His suit is crinkled. He wonders if he has a clean one at work. He realises that he doesn’t care. The smell of Daenerys lingers on his shirt. He lets his nostrils fill with the scent as he walks out of the room.

The living space is dark. The rain outside falls thick as a curtain. Jon lights a cigarette as he settles on the sofa. He thinks: what now? Would Daenerys want him to leave, would she want him to stay? He could fret, but he doesn’t care to. He is too tired, and too satisfied. He is old, but he feels young. He could run to Manhattan and back again and not be out of breath. He can’t recall the last time he felt so peaceful. He just wants to rest in the sensation.

The front door opens. Someone calls: “Good morning!” Jon recognises the voice - it’s Margaery Tyrell.

Jon’s Adam’s apple jumps in surprise. He stands. He sits back down. He looks for an ashtray. He can only find the whisky glass from yesterday. He has a drag of his smoke. His hand shakes. He thinks he should say something. Instead he remains silent.

Margaery’s chatter continues: “Guess what’s parked outside - a Cadillac! Who around here can afford that kind of car? I bet it’s our neighbour’s. I told you he’s a pimp.” She moves about in the hallway. The floorboards creak under her. There’s a rustling of papers. “We swung by the office yesterday. I got the notes. Frey Construction, right? I have no idea what to do with that one.” Her hand pats across the wall. Jon hears a switch click. Margaery says: “Why are you sitting in the da-” but then she stops.

Jon stares at her - smoke hanging from his hand, shirt partially unbuttoned - and she stares at him - pale with shock, eyes open in surprise. For a second, neither of them speak. Then Jon rushes to his feet.

“Good morning, Miss Tyrell,” he says. His words seem to startle her even more.

Margaery gapes at him, but her voice is professional when she speaks: “Good morning, Mr Snow.” Her hand on the switch trembles. In the other, she’s holding a pile of papers. The moment he looks at them, she shuffles them behind her back and clears her throat. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I thought you were Daenerys- I mean, Miss Targaryen.”

“She’s still sleeping,” Jon says. He tries to sound casual. His cheeks are glowing.

“Oh,” Margaery says. Her gaze falls to the whisky glass. Realisation seems to dawn on her face. “Oh,” she repeats. She sounds like she doesn’t know what else to say.

Jon picks up the glass. His old cigarette butt rolls around on the bottom. “Let me clean this,” he says and moves toward the kitchen, but Margaery looks practically panicked at the suggestion.

She swoops over and claims the glass from his hand. “Oh no, please let me do that, Mr Snow.”

“It’s no trouble,” Jon assures her.

“Please,” Margaery says, and there is strain to her voice. She peers into his eyes with determination. “It wouldn’t be right. You’re my _guest._ ” She picks the word with care. Jon can’t help but wonder if she wanted to say _boss_ but thought better of it. He lets her have the glass, and he watches as she shuffles into the kitchen, her nape red.

Jon’s face prickles. Sweat cling to his forehead. He rolls his smoke around between his fingers as he eyes Margaery. Her back is turned to him as she furiously scrubs the glass. Her pile of papers is on the counter. The pages are getting soaked with soapy water. “Miss,” he starts, and she snaps around on her heels and sends him an earnest look.

“Mr Snow,” she says, “I am perfectly capable of being discreet. If anyone asks, you were not here.”

Jon sends her a startled look. “I didn’t-” he starts, but Margaery interjects:

“Mr Snow.” Her face is red. “Please answer me this: have I not always done my duties well?”

“You have,” Jon agrees without hesitation.

“This is not the first secret I’ve come across in the office. I do not gossip.”

“Of course,” Jon says. “I trust your professionalism.”

“Good,” Margaery replies. Her voice has a tinge of relief to it, but her face still looks hesitant. “That was not your question?” she realises.

Jon points to the counter. “Your papers are getting wet.”

Margaery turns and grasps the pile. “Shit!” she hisses, before, blushing furiously, she sends Jon an apologetic look as she mumbles: “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jon assures her, and he watches amused as she waves the droplets off the paperwork and dumps it on the kitchen table. Even from where he’s standing, he can recognise the format of the typing. “Is that a copy of the Frey file?” he asks.

Margaery looks like she wants to throw the papers in the bin, but, knowing he’s seen them, she nods with a resigned look on her face. “Yes,” she says, “it is.”

“That shouldn’t leave the office,” Jon says. When he walks over, Margaery steps away. He flicks through the first few pages. He reads some scattered sentences. “This is Theon’s work,” he says and looks at her. She doesn’t meet his gaze. “Why do you have this?”

“I shouldn’t say,” Margaery replies.

Jon’s eyes narrow as he takes in her face. This close, he can see how her makeup is worn and her dress is dirty. “Where have you been all night?” he asks.

Margaery gives him an offended look. “Mr Snow, that is none of your business,” she replies sharply.

“Mr Baratheon?” Jon guesses. He already knows. “Joffrey Baratheon?”

“Speaking of secrets,” Margaery says, her voice tense, “may I remind you that is one you promised to keep.”

“Not at the cost of the company,” Jon points out. “Is he making you do this? Is he trying to start his own agency again? All that double-talk is how we lost clients in ‘59.”

“It’s not for him this time,” Margaery says sourly. She crosses her arms. Her warm professionalism is gone. When she speaks, her voice is cool. “Please don’t try to embarrass me just because you’re embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Jon replies.

Margaery huffs: “Well, you should be. A boss sleeping with his secretary?”

Jon flushes. “It’s not unheard of.”

“Why, I assigned her to you because I thought you were better than that. She’s a good person, Mr Snow - I am tired of all the men taking advantage of that.”

“Who is taking advantage?” Jon asks curtly. He stares at Margaery in bewilderment. “What are you on about?”

But Margaery doesn’t speak. She’s looking past Jon and, when he turns, he sees why - there, in the doorway, stands Daenerys. She’s still in her pink gown, but she’s swung a robe around her frame for warmth. Her small hands cling onto the white fabric. She looks just as pale.

“Daenerys,” Jon says.

“Good morning,” she says, looking between them.

Margaery runs her hands through her hair with a sigh before gesturing at the papers. “I’m sorry,” she says, and she sounds it. “I tried to hide them.”

“It’s okay,” Daenerys replies. She forces a small smile onto her lips, but the look she sends Jon is nervous.

Jon throws out his hands. “Would someone let me in on what’s going on?” he asks.

Margaery brushes past him. She pats Daenerys’ shoulder on her way. “I’ll be in my room,” she says, and Daenerys whispers her thanks to her before seeing her off.

Daenerys waits until the door shuts before turning back to Jon. She gestures at the coffee maker. “Would you like some?” she asks, biting her lip.

“Are you starting your own company?” Jon replies.

Despite her nervous demeanour, Daenerys laughs. “No, I am not,” she assures him. As he settles by the kitchen table, the papers in front of him, she pours them two cups of coffee. “I don’t know how to explain this,” she admits as she sits down across from him.

“Start with this,” Jon asks, pointing to the papers. He wants to sound stern, but looking into her eyes, he feels only his heart fluttering. His voice grows soft. “Daenerys, what is going on? Are you trying to take revenge on Theon?”

“The other way around!” Daenerys blurts. She sips her coffee and sighs. Heat escapes her lips. “Trust me when I say that I didn’t enter this business expecting to do anything other than secretary duties. I like my job, Jon, I really do - typing, filing, answering the phone? It’s mind numbing, sure, but it also gives me a sense of pride.”

“Right,” Jon says, uncertain of where she’s leading him.

“Margaery did warn me, she said, _the men will use you._ I thought she meant - well, you know,” Daenerys flushes, “so I kept my distance. Nice but professional. But as it turns out, there are more ways in which the guys will haunt a new secretary.”

“I don’t like the sound of this,” Jon says. Her word choice bothers him. _Use. Haunt._ Just what kind of place has Lannister Baratheon become, he wonders, and when did he allow it to happen?

“It’s nothing sinister,” Daenerys assures him. She looks into her mug. With a resigned sigh, she explains: “They started giving me work, Jon. Just the odd task in the beginning - look into this account, research that market.”

“That’s not your job.”

“I’m aware, but it was also kind of exciting, you know? Peeking into the world of advertisement. I learned a lot doing those ad hoc projects for the guys.”

Jon’s eyes narrow. “Who exactly?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Daenerys says quietly.

Jon’s eyes narrow. “If they’re my guys, I have a right to know.”

Daenerys sighs. She gives her coffee a good stare. “Tyrion, Theon, Petyr-,” she lists before quickly adding: “I mean, just whoever needed me.”

Jon’s hands are clenched into fists on the table. He tries to listen with an open mind, but his stomach has started to twist and turn. Tyrion. Theon. Petyr. There are others too, he can tell. Likely every man in the office is implicated. It makes his blood boil. “You should have told me,” he says, “I would’ve stopped them.”

“Actually, you told me more than once to fight my own battles,” Daenerys reminds him. There is no harshness to her voice. Her words still hit Jon like a slap. When he eyes the table in shame, she reaches over and grabs his hand. “Jon,” she speaks softly.

“I didn’t think-” Jon starts, but he doesn’t finish. He feels a fool. He feels angry. The emotions are mixing inside of him. He senses it’s a dangerous cocktail. “So that’s why you know so many accounts,” he concludes. He thinks back on the Martell dinner. He remembers how Daenerys spoke with a confidence he’s never seen before. He senses now that he should’ve known - no secretary would learn those details just going about her normal duties.

Daenerys rubs his hand. Her fingers are soft against his rough skin. “When you told me off for staying behind, I couldn’t do work for them. That’s how I got back on track again, and stopped making mistakes.”

“Well, you didn’t fully stop,” Jon mumbles, eyeing the Frey account.

Daenerys bites her lower lip and pulls her hand back. There’s something in her violet eyes - a tinge of an emotion he can’t quite pinpoint.

Jon leans in. “What is it?” he asks.

“Well,” Daenerys starts, but she hesitates. “Well, the thing is,” she starts again, but once more she stops.

Jon leans closer. He tries to catch her eyes. “Please,” he asks, “no more secrets. You said Theon is taking revenge on you?”

“Those are your words,” Daenerys reminds him, “but yes, I suppose that the Frey account is revenge for overriding him in the meeting. I shouldn’t have done it, no matter how good it felt. Don’t say otherwise - you’ve already heard the complaints.”

“Complaints?” Jon asks.

“About me being difficult?” Daenerys sends him a sorry look. “Oh Jon, you know my conduct. The guys weren’t moaning because I’m a bad secretary - they were complaining because I stopped doing their tasks! But the thing is-” Daenerys starts again, and she takes in a deep breath. “I like the work, Jon - and I’m good at it!” She raises her gaze to look him in the eyes. Her face is stubborn and proud. “You know Arryn Ale? _Less Calories, More Fun?_ Well, I came up with that.”

“You did?” Jon says, stumped.

“I didn’t just research. I did the work.” Daenerys sits up a bit more straight. “Work that _you_ signed off!”

“And that the guys got praised for,” Jon whispers in realisation. If he was angry before, he is now furious. His heart pumps quicker. His hands jitter. He needs to do something. He doesn’t know what, but he needs to get rid of the energy building up inside of him.

Daenerys nods to the paperwork. “I had no time at work, not when you had me leave at five, so I started bringing the tasks home. I know I shouldn’t have,” she adds quickly, “but I did.”

“I’ve got to go,” Jon says, standing up at once.

Daenerys sends him a surprised look. “Where?” she asks.

“To work,” Jon replies. His nostrils flare. He tries to keep his fury inside, but his words are hot with temper. “There are some guys I need to speak to.”

“Please, Jon,” Daenerys says, and she gets up as he storms toward the door, “don’t do something you’ll regret.” When he walks to the hallway, she follows at his heels. Her voice is worried. She begs: “I don’t want to lose this job. I’m happy being your secretary.”

Jon grabs Daenerys by the cheeks and pulls her into a kiss. It is hard, and warm, and leaves her breathless by the time he lets go. He stares into her eyes. “No,” he says, “you are so much more than a secretary.” When he grabs the handle and hurries down the steps, he knows exactly what to do. He is about to wreak havoc at work, and he doesn’t even care about the consequences.

* * *

By the time Jon arrives at work, his anger is focused. Signs of yesterday’s celebrations are everywhere; plastic cups in reception, confetti on the floor, empty bottles sticking out of every wastebasket. People are slowly arriving. The secretaries are still setting up their desks. Jon enters through the glass doors, turns right, and walks toward the first office.

Tyrion’s girl Shae is by her typewriter. She smiles at him as he approaches. “Good morning, Mr Snow,” she says, “is he expecting you?”

“No,” Jon replies, and he steps past her as he swings the door open with a bang.

Tyrion sits up on his sofa with a jolt. He looks like he’s been asleep. He’s got a bottle in his hand, and there are stains on his shirt. “Hello?” he says confused. He peers through the grey darkness. His eyes are unfocused.

Jon flips the switch and sends him a curt look. “In my office,” he says, “ _now._ ” Then he turns, brushes past Shae, and heads straight for the next door.

One by one, Jon rounds up the men; Gendry, Samwell, Theon. Around him, the secretaries are getting flustered. He can hear their heated whispers. They stare at him with pale, frightened faces as he stalks past them. By the time he reaches Petyr’s office, Jeyne jumps to her feet, her face alert.

“He’s not in yet, Mr Snow,” she says. Her voice is hurried.

Jon still opens the door. The office is empty. “The moment he comes in,” he says and turns to her with a brisk look, “send him to me.”

“At once,” she agrees.

Jon heads to his own office. It is dark. The rain outside has picked up. Thunder rolls through the air. He watches the streets below as the men pile into the space. No one sits down. When he turns, they’re lined up by the wall, their faces a mix of confusion and interest. Four men, he thinks. Four potential dismissals.

“Right,” Jon says, and he makes sure to look at each of them before continuing, “whose brilliant idea was it to use my secretary to do their work?”

The men glance at each other. “I’m not sure I follow,” Gendry replies after a pause.

A dry smile settles on Jon’s face. “Don’t lie to me. You won’t do the work, but you’ll take the money?”

“Look, I don’t know where you get your information from,” Theon says, holding up his hands in defence, “but it’s nothing like that.”

“Go on,” Jon says sharply. He watches as Theon fiddles with his suit jacket to pull out a cigarette before adding: “I didn’t say you could smoke in here.”

Theon pauses, cigarette between his lips, and he glances from Jon to the other men. Then, with an exasperated roll of his eyes, he sticks it back in his pocket. “Right, look Jon-”

“That’s _Mr Snow_ to you.”

Theon’s face starts reddening. Whether from stress or embarrassment, Jon can’t tell. “Mr Snow,” he starts again, “it was just a bit of research. She was glad to have the work, too. She practically begged for it.”

“Just a bit of research?” Jon repeats. He clicks his tongue as he starts walking toward him. His grey eyes stare into Theon’s. “That’s what you call coming up with slogans?”

“She never did slogans,” Tyrion interjects.

“ _Less calories, more fun._ That was your invention?” Jon asks Samwell.

The man’s face glows. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I don’t do the words, just the art. I promise, Mr Snow, I didn’t know.”

“You’re a sorry bunch,” Jon sneers. His heartbeat has quickened. When he glares at Theon, it seems to jump to his throat. “She’s stuck with Frey Constructions while you’re out celebrating - an account _she won,_ no less _._ ”

“You gave her the Frey account?” Tyrion whispers to Theon, but the man doesn’t even acknowledge him.

Theon is staring at Jon, his eyes brimming with anger. It only serves to spur Jon on. “I trusted you,” he says, stopping in front of him. He seizes him up, his eyes cool. “I gave you the Martells, yet you dare pull this on me.”

“I won the Martell account,” Theon replies.

“Daenerys won the account!”

“Oh!” Theon’s eyes widen and he lets go of a mocking laugh. He’s so close that Jon can feel his breath slipper across his skin. He stinks of smoke. “It’s first name basis with her, is it? Looks like she’s done more than just working late.”

“Careful, Greyjoy,” Jon says. His hands turn to fists at his side. Out of the corners of his eyes, he sees the other men take a step back. It’s like the room is growing darker around them; there’s just Theon and himself.

“She’s got you wrapped around your finger, doesn’t she?” Theon mocks. “All this time, you were turning your nose up at us dating the girls - but the moment Gilly’s off your desk, you can’t stop yourself either.”

Jon warns him: “Don’t say something you’ll regret,” but he can already sense that it’s too late; the man is wound up, and he’s not about to back down.

Theon leans in close. When he speaks, he has a grin on his face. “When did she decide to rat us out?” he asks in a whisper. “Before or after she gave you her cunt?”

Theon hits the wall. His jaw is throbbing. Jon’s hand is raised. His knuckles are red. Samwell cries in surprise whilst Gendry and Tyrion have stepped back. When Jon moves forward, Theon flinches under his shadow. “Don’t you ever,” Jon says, his voice out of breath, “talk about her in that way.”

The door flings open. Petyr steps over the threshold as he asks: “What’s going on in here?” He looks at Jon. He looks at Theon. The expression on his face is one of delightful shock.

Jon rolls up his sleeves and glares at the man. “You were in on it too, weren’t you?” he asks.

“Not if it’ll put me in the same position as Mr Greyjoy,” Petyr replies.

“You can help him pack his things - he’s out of here.”

“You can’t fire me!” Theon cries from the floor. He grabs onto Gendry as he stumbles back onto his feet. His jaw is turning blue. The look on his face is a mix of surprise and anguish. “You can’t!”

“Your office will suit Miss Targaryen,” Jon sneers back at him, “and so will your wages.”

“You can’t possibly mean that?” Tyrion says. When Jon looks at him, he takes another step away, keeping his distance. Still he continues: “The men will never work under a girl. You know that.”

“I’m afraid Mr Lannister is correct,” Petyr says. He folds his hands at his front as he glances between the parties. “A girl simply can’t do advertisements - it’s unheard of. We’d lose men if we were to try.”

Jon rubs his hands. He watches Theon take cover behind Gendry, his eyes glazed. “Well, Mr Baelish,” he says, taking in a huff of air, “either she’s in, or I am out.”

“You can’t fire me,” Theon says again. With the other men in agreement, his voice is less frail. He still flinches when Jon moves. “You can’t.”

“It is not my decision,” Petyr says to no one in particular. He watches as Jon turns on his heels and heads for the door. “Mr Baratheon must be informed of what’s happened here. Mr Snow-” he holds out his hand to stop him from walking.

Jon glares at him until he drops his arm. He pauses on the threshold. “What?” he asks.

Petyr’s voice lowers. “You’re walking on dangerous ground,” he replies. “You could lose your job.”

“I’m okay with that,” Jon says, and he brushes past him out of the office. As he walks through the open space, the secretaries step aside for him, their eyes big, their lips shivering. He doesn’t pay them any heed. They don’t matter. Even the pain in his hand doesn’t bother him. He just keeps walking - into the lift, through the lobby, out into the rain.

Thunder strikes in the distance. Jon stands and lets himself get soaked as he watches the colours cut through the sky. Then he gets in his Cadillac, turns up the radio, and heads back toward Brooklyn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say that I'm very humbled by the response to the last chapter. Thank you for sharing your own stories; it was interesting to see how many of you have personally been affected by dementia in the family, and how this has left an impact. It was a difficult subject to take on, so I'm grateful for the kind feedback.
> 
> As for this chapter - I am so pleased to finally show how far both Jon and Daenerys have come as people as well as in their relation to one another! This chapter hopefully also clears up a lot about Daenerys' position and how she's managed work when Jon's been out of the office. I hope you all like this turn - though a few of you already guessed that this was the case!
> 
> There is just one more chapter to go - and I can't wait to share the ending with you all! Thank you for your support so far. It's really been amazing!


	9. A compromise

In the pale morning light, Jon rolls over and grabs Daenerys by the waist. He pulls her naked body to his, presses wet kisses down her neck, wakes her with his hand between her legs. She is wet. He is hard. When his fingers sink into her, she moans:

“Oh Jon, you’re being inappropriate.” Daenerys has sleep on her lashes.

Jon brushes it off before kissing her warm lips. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks. His words are in her mouth. His tongue rolls with hers, a lazy attempt at dominance.

Daenerys rocks onto his hand. Her violet eyes are hazy. “No,” she whispers, “I want you to take me.”

Jon drags her legs over his hips as he pushes into her. His member is stiff, her sex is warm. Beneath him, she is small and keen. He fucks her with ease. He can taste last night’s drinks, and toothpaste, and smoke on her lips. He can smell peaches and sweat on her skin. He kisses her face, and her lips, and her neck, and her breasts. Her nipples harden under his tongue. He holds her as he tastes her.

“You’re such a good boss,” Daenerys teases. Her fingers drag through his curls, across his shoulders, then down his back. He can feel her nails. They scratch at his skin. “Giving your secretary such a treat in the morning. I must have been good.”

“Good? I thought I was punishing you.”

“What for?”

“Looking so seductive.” Jon lifts his head from her cleavage and kisses her mouth again. He swallows her moans as he fucks her more deeply, more slowly. He is in no hurry. He is right where he wants to be.

Daenerys’ back arches and her lips part in a soft pant. Her hands are weak at her sides, tugging at the pillows and duvet as she lets Jon have her. “In that case I’m awfully sorry,” she says, her voice breathless, “I will try to be better, Mr Snow.”

Jon takes in a sharp breath of air. His hands are on hers, their fingers intertwined. “Call me that again,” he urges as he looks into her eyes.

Daenerys’ face is flushed pink, her eyes are barely open. But she peers back at him from between her stray locks of silver hair, and she whispers: “As you please, _Mr Snow."_

It is all Jon can bear; as fantasy and reality melt into one, he sinks back into her with a hard jerk from his hips. He can’t stop himself - he starts fucking her with need.

Daenerys gasps at the swift change to his pace. Her head lolls back. Her eyes squeeze tightly shut. “Oh God, Mr Snow,” she moans, every word from her mouth drenched in desire, “oh please, oh please hold me.”

Jon’s arms sink in around her. They press her to his body, her head at his neck as he takes her to an orgasm. Her body shivers in his hands, and her lips slipper across his shoulder, holding her breathless gasps back. When he comes, it’s with gritted teeth, his nose buried in her silver hair, his every muscle tense.

When Jon’s hold softens, Daenerys sinks back into the duvet, her body trembling and pink. She takes in a gulp of air as she eyes the ceiling. Her forehead glistens with sweat. “If you keep waking me up like that,” she says, and she lazily drags her gaze to Jon’s face as he settles next to her, “I’ll never want to leave this bed.”

Jon twirls a lock of her hair around his finger. He watches her breasts rise and fall as she breathes in. “Is that a problem?” he asks.

Daenerys sends him a small smile. “Well, I want to be a secretary outside the bedroom too.”

Jon grimaces and sits up. “That talk again,” he mutters. He grabs his pack of cigarettes from the bedside table, lights a smoke, and walks to the windows. They’re open. The breeze drags across his naked frame and gives him goosebumps.

Daenerys moves behind him. He can hear the rustling of the duvet as she gets up. “We need to talk about it,” she insists. “It’s been over a week.”

A perfect week, Jon thinks, of fucking and drinking and living life. His apartment has offered a freedom he didn’t think existed. He has a drag of his smoke. He doesn’t say anything.

Daenerys sighs: “Jon, please - doesn’t it feel like something’s missing?”

“Whatever you want, I can get you. Just tell me. I’ll buy it.”

“You always talk of money.” Daenerys slips across the floor. Her soft arms wrap around his waist. He can feel her breath on his back when she speaks: “That’s why you punched Theon, isn’t it? To give me his wages.”

“You should get paid for your work,” Jon says and looks over his shoulder at her.

“But I _am_ paid for my work,” Daenerys argues. As Jon turns in her arms to face her, she continues before he can interject: “I am a secretary, Jon. I am paid as a secretary.”

“Coming up with slogans is not the work of a secretary.”

“I told you - I like doing it.”

“So you should be a copywriter,” Jon says with exasperation. He tips Daenerys’ head up by the chin and looks down into her eyes. Her gaze is confident. His own is confused. “Don’t you understand? I have contacts. If you want to work, there are plenty of companies that will take us in. You don’t have to answer to anyone.”

“I think you’re the one who doesn't understand,” Daenerys replies. Her own voice is strained. Jon can tell something is irking her. A muscle pulls at her lips, making them twitch. “I don’t want you to get me a job. I have a job.”

“Listen-” Jon starts, but Daenerys pulls away.

“No, Jon, you listen to me,” she says, and there’s heat to her voice. She takes a step back, arms folded at her chest as she stares at him.

Jon finds himself quiet at her words. He has a drag of his cigarette. Smoke seeps from the corners of his lips as he watches her with interest.

“It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? If Lannister Baratheon won’t have you, someone else will. Because they know your worth, and so do you. You don’t even have to ask - I’ve heard the phone ring. Every agency in the city is waiting to see what you'll do. Do you think they’re waiting on me too?”

“They don’t know you,” Jon says.

Daenerys shakes her head with a disbelieving smile. “No, they don’t. That’s why I have to let my work speak for itself, Jon, and not have some powerful man do my bidding.”

Jon rolls his cigarette between his fingertips. He tastes the smoke as he mulls over her words. He knows there’s truth to them. It bothers him to admit. “So you’re happy being a secretary?”

“I am not happy being a copywriter if I only get the position because my boss punched someone,” Daenerys replies. She looks tired. When Jon doesn’t say anything else, she rubs her eyes and sighs. “I need a shower.”

Jon wants to argue. He wants to tell her that she is wrong, and that she needs to come with him to another agency, and that it doesn’t matter who gets her in the seat of power as long as she gets there. But he knows it does matter. He took Robb’s position not because he was suited for it but because he was related to the Starks - and he’s never really been able to forgive himself. So he looks down. “Go ahead,” he mutters, “I’ll make coffee.”

As Daenerys heads to the bathroom, Jon finishes his smoke on the balcony, leaning in over the railing, watching the cars pass by far below. He thinks of Robb, and he thinks of his father, and he thinks of Robert, and he thinks of Theon. But mostly he thinks about Daenerys, and it makes his stomach twist with guilt.

Jon flings his smoke over the balcony, dresses in his robe, and walks to the kitchen. Ghost greets him by the empty food bowl. Jon fills it before preparing breakfast. As the bacon sizzles, there’s a buzz at his door. Through the peephole he sees Samwell.

“Fuck,” Jon mutters under his breath. His heartbeat has already picked up. He imagines throwing himself at the guy, grabbing him by the collar, flinging him out of the building. His Adam’s apple jumps at the thought. When he opens the door, he tries to look neutral, but his eyes must still be burning. At least Samwell takes a step back and holds his hands to his chest.

“I didn’t know,” Samwell stammers.

“Good morning,” Jon replies curtly.

“Good morning,” Samwell replies, quickly followed by: “I didn’t know, Mr Snow, I honestly didn’t know.”

Jon sighs and rubs his temples. He’s known Samwell for over ten years. The man is dedicated, but naive. He wonders if he has the capacity to scheme with Theon. “Come in,” he finally says and steps aside.

Samwell remains in the hallway. “Mr Baratheon sent me here,” he says.

“Come in,” Jon urges again, and, as Samwell still doesn’t move, he adds: “I won’t hit you.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Samwell says, but he finally steps over the threshold. He lingers at the entrance, his eyes scouring the open glass doors leading to the balcony. “What a view.”

“Can I get you anything?” Jon closes the door and tightens the robe around his body. Watching Samwell in his suit, he feels underdressed. A boss shouldn’t let his subordinates see him outside the office. But then again, Jon reminds himself, a boss shouldn’t sleep with his secretary either.

“Oh, it’s too early for alcohol.”

Jon can’t help a wry smile. “I was thinking coffee.”

“Oh right,” Samwell says, flushing. “No, I’m okay. Thank you.” As Jon walks into the kitchen, he follows, watching everything on his way - the paintings on the wall, the furniture, the decorations. His brown eyes are big. “You have a nice place, Mr Snow,” he says.

Jon returns to his breakfast. The bacon has burnt. He scoops it off the pan as he eyes Samwell. “You mentioned Mr Baratheon?”

Samwell tears his gaze away from the balcony doors once more and turns to Jon. “Yes, he’s asked for a meeting. At noon today.”

Jon frowns. “That’s short notice. He must think I have nothing else to do.”

Samwell agrees: “It is short notice,” but his eyes linger on Jon’s robe and his messy hair.

Jon notices and runs his hand through his curls to slicken them down. They jump right back up. “Why didn’t he call me?”

“Old Nan did try, but your phone’s been busy.”

“Right.” Jon thinks of all the agency calls recently. One evening, Daenerys unhooked the phone to get some peace. He can’t remember if he put it back on. “Where’s the meeting?”

“All the details are here,” Samwell says and hands over a piece of paper.

Jon takes it and places it in the pocket of his robe. “I’m surprised he sent you and not Mr Baelish.”

“I volunteered.”

Jon’s brows raise as he watches Samwell’s face redden. “You did?” he asks. “Why?”

“Well, I guess I feel guilty. I didn’t know anything - truly,” Samwell clarifies once more, sending Jon an honest look before eyeing the floor. His demeanour changes. He seems to struggle to find his voice as he continues: “But I should’ve known, I guess. Normally all the work we do is last minute. When things started coming in with days to spare? I suppose I should have questioned it.”

Jon lights another smoke as he watches Samwell talk. If he wasn’t a man, he’d find it in him to smile. Instead, he shakes his head in dismissal. “Daenerys never mentioned your name,” he assures him and blows out smoke. “Don’t worry about it.”

Samwell’s face lights up a little, but he still fiddles with his hands, seemingly building up courage. “There was something else.”

“What?” Jon asks. His eyes narrow.

“Well, my wedding is this weekend,” Samwell says, “and I don’t want to make you feel awkward, but I really would like it if you and Miss Targaryen would still attend.”

Jon opens his mouth to reply, but before he can decide on a kind rejection, someone else says:

“Of course we’ll come!” They both turn to see Daenerys enter the kitchen. Her hair drips wetly, but she is looking sweet in a white, loose dress. She stops next to Samwell and sends him a kind smile. “We’d love to - right, Jon?” She peers at Jon.

Jon can’t decide whether he wants to fuck her out of desire or annoyance. When Samwell looks at him too, he forces a smile. It comes out as a grimace. “Sure. Of course. We’ll be there.”

Samwell beams at them. “Thank you so much. It’ll mean the world to Gilly, it really will!”

Eager to change the conversation, Jon says: “Looks like Robert wants to meet us.” He hands over the note to Daenerys who looks at it.

Samwell’s smile drops. “I’m sorry. Mr Snow,” he stammers, “he asked just for yourself.”

“If she can’t go, neither will I,” Jon protests.

Samwell looks like he doesn’t know what to say. He opens his mouth in silence, and looks relieved when Daenerys interjects:

“It’s not his fault if Robert only wants you.”

“No, but he can carry the message.”

“Don’t be like that,” Daenerys sighs and hands him back the note. When Jon doesn’t take it, she pointedly places it on the counter in front of him. “You created this mess, so you can sort it out.”

“We just had that discussion,” Jon replies, smoke seeping from his lips.

“Then you know perfectly well where I stand.”

Samwell glances between them. He awkwardly clears his throat. “I should go,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Daenerys sighs, and she looks it. She sends him an apologetic glance. “We’ve been cooped up here for too long. We need to get back.”

“You enjoy work,” Samwell says with a small smile, “I understand. I couldn’t do without it either.”

“I’ll do anything to sit at that secretary desk again.”

“Or a copywriter’s desk,” Jon interjects.

Daenerys frowns, and Samwell lets go of a hesitant chuckle. “Well, Miss Targaryen, we will be happy to have you back either way. And you too, Mr Snow, of course.”

Jon notes how his name sounds like a hollow addition, but he doesn’t mention it. He waves for Samwell to follow him. “I’ll see you out.”

“I look forward to the wedding,” Daenerys calls after them.

Samwell relaxes once he’s out the door. He heads for the elevator and clicks the button. “Good luck, Mr Snow,” he says to Jon, “I mean it - it will be good to have you both back. Things have been so strange.” He pauses, then adds: “And work really hasn’t been good. Clients have noticed.”

They need Daenerys, Jon thinks, leaning against the doorframe. He watches Samwell as he mulls over his earlier argument with her; she wants to go back, but she won’t take a better position if he’s the one to get it for her. How can he make that happen when Robert will only see him? As the elevator doors ping open, an idea pops into his head.

“Sam,” he calls, and Samwell stops in his tracks. He sends him a confused look as Jon waves him back. “I need you to get something from the office for me.”

* * *

The Playboy Club is busy with daytime drinking. Jon glares at the waitresses as they pass him by, wondering if his future is about to be decided amongst bunnies and whisky bottles.

Robert appears unbothered. He orders a second filet mignon before popping open a bottle. The red wine spills on the table as he pours a glass. He’s already tipsy. “Still no Bessie,” he says, “can you believe it? I’m starting to think she’s avoiding me.”

“Did you bring me here to drink, or to talk?” Jon asks. The glass of Canadian Club in front of him is tempting. He forces himself not to touch it.

“You can’t do both?”

“If you’re going to fire me, just say so.”

“Do you punch better sober?” Robert looks into his eyes. For a moment, Jon feels the air between them tense. He straightens up and awaits the inevitable. Then, his boss’ face breaks into a grin. “Ah, I’m kidding, Jon” he laughs. His breath stinks of cigar smoke and alcohol. “Stop taking everything so seriously.”

Jon furrows his brows as Robert continues to empty his glass in two big gulps. He soon refills it to the brim. “But it _is_ serious,” Jon says. “I punched an employee.”

“I’ve always wanted to punch Theon. Smug face he’s got, don’t you think?”

“That’s not the point.”

“No, it’s not.” Robert wipes his hands off in a napkin as he leans back into the booth. He watches Jon with a grunt. “Theon’s had time to cool off. So have you. I say you shake hands and forget about it.”

Jon scoffs: “I’m not going to shake his hand.”

“Fine, then just forget about it. For God’s sake, Jon - how long are you going to keep this up?” Robert grabs his glass and shakes his head as he empties it.

“What do you mean?” Jon asks perplexed. “Keep what up?”

“We need you back at the office. The clients are getting impatient. There’s a lot of work to be done.” Robert uses his nail to fish a stray piece of lettuce out from between his teeth. He flings it onto his plate as a bunny stops to collect it. “Can you check on my meal, honey?” he asks her. “It takes a lot to fuel a man like me.”

“Right away, Sir,” she smiles.

Jon stares at Robert in disbelief. “You think I’m just going to go back like nothing has happened?” he asks.

“You’ve had your holiday. You can bring your girl too. I’ve missed the sight of her in the morning.”

“You won’t see much of her once she has an office,” Jon points out, “because that’s what it’ll take to get us back. She deserves an office.”

Robert sighs: “Enough of this nonsense-”

Jon hammers his fists to the table. “Listen to me!” The plates shake. Cutlery falls to the floor. A few bunnies turn and stare. Jon’s voice is barely contained as he continues: “This is not a request. I am _telling_ you.”

Robert narrows his eyes and rests his hands on his stomach. He settles against the backrest, his face red but calm. “I have listened,” he says slowly, watching Jon’s hard breathing slow down, “so now you listen to me, boy. I don’t care what sort of lovers’ quarrel caused my office to become a battlezone, but it ends now. On Monday, you go back to your office, and your girl goes back to her desk, and then we forget this ever happened.”

“She is a copywriter,” Jon replies through gritted teeth. He leans over the table, glaring down Robert whose face is becoming redder every minute. It almost looks purple with rage. Somehow, it spurs Jon on. “You make her a copywriter, or I’m walking.”

“Damn it, Jon,” Robert sneers, “I can’t have a girl ordering around men. What will people think?”

“That you run a modern company,” Jon replies.

“Half the office will walk if she gets a title.”

“So pick,” Jon says, “half the office or me.”

Robert’s stare intensifies. He holds Jon’s eyes for a minute in silence, and Jon holds his breath, expecting him to blow at any second. But then Robert looks down with a sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose with a groan. When his hands drop, the red colour has started draining from his cheeks. He looks lost, Jon thinks. Like a man stranded at sea. “What am I to do?” he asks in a tired voice. “I can’t lose my men. I can’t lose you. I can’t even lose Daenerys.”

Robert’s admission surprises Jon. He blinks at him. “You can’t?” he says before he can stop himself.

Robert rubs his beard, his eyes on the bottle of wine. He seems to mull over something, but no words leave his mouth.

“Go on,” Jon asks.

“Oh what’s the point in denying it,” Robert sighs. He grabs the bottle and takes a swig straight from the neck. When he bangs it back onto the table, he scowls at Jon. “The Martells have been asking for her. If I let her go, they’ll drop the account.”

“Really?” Jon says. His boss’ eagerness to get them back suddenly makes sense. He knows he should remain calm, but he can’t help a smile.

“Don’t look so chuffed,” Robert warns him. “This could be the ruin of the company.”

“Then you only have one choice,” Jon points out.

Robert shakes his head. He sinks back into the booth and throws out his arms. “I can’t do it, Jon,” he says. “I can’t make her a copywriter just because you say so. Hell, I’d be known as a fool!”

“Then don’t do it because I say so,” Jon says, and he reaches under the table. He opens his bag, pulls out a folder, and hands it to Robert. “Do it because she deserves it.”

Robert accepts the folder with hesitation and eyes the golden lettering on front. Lannister Baratheon. “You’re bringing home work?”

“I pulled a favour,” Jon says vaguely, his mind slipping back to Samwell.

Robert shakes his head and pushes stuff aside on the table to make space for the large file. He flips it open and grunts as his eyes fall on the Arryn Ale advertisement. “That sold well,” he says.

“That’s Daenerys’ slogan,” Jon says. “If you don’t believe me, ask the guys. They won’t dare to lie to you.”

Robert glances at him shortly before continuing to flicker through the pages. There is a chocolate ad, and Bolton Knives, and some coupons for tinned meat, and a series of lipstick advertisements. On the final page is the Martell ad. _Good company is guaranteed._

“That one is yours,” Robet protests, but Jon shakes his head.

“No, it’s my idea, but her work. They didn’t want the businessman,” Jon explains and points to the woman on the sofa, “they wanted the businesswoman. Don’t you get it? Her being a woman is not a disadvantage. It’s her _advantage._ She sees things differently. She knows things we don’t. How else could she have sold this idea to a big account like the Martells?”

“Well, her looks don’t hurt,” Robert says, but Jon can tell that there’s something else to his voice. He’s thinking. His eyes are focused.

Jon leans back as he watches his boss. After a few seconds of silence, he says: “My father always spoke highly of you.” He waits for Robert to peer at him before continuing: “Before he got ill. He wanted Robb to work under you because he trusted you to do the right thing.”

“Don’t try to guilt me into anything,” Robert says.

“Daenerys is doing their work but you’re paying them for it,” Jon continues. “Can you really accept that?”

“But if I make her a copywriter, I’ll have no men left,” Robert argues. He looks like he’s aged over dinner; his eyes are no longer gleaming, and his skin looks dull. He throws the file closed with an exasperated sigh. “What am I to do, Jon? How can I win?”

“By doing the right thing,” Jon says as he gets up. He pulls on his coat as he watches Robert - frazzled, red, and tired - and he adds: “If you still remember what that is.” Then, he turns and heads out of the club.

Outside, the air is cold. Jon walks for warmth and to clear his head. He hates not being in control. He wonders if this is how Daenerys has been feeling; at the mercy of other men. He stops on the corner and lights a cigarette. He has a drag as he watches people trudge past. 

The streets are busy with businessmen, and couples, and wives with their kids in tow. Jon watches a young lady with a newborn in her arms. She slowly passes him by as she coos at the child, and his heart throbs as he realises; if he is to have a future with Daenerys, he too has to first do the right thing.

* * *

With its wooden facade and red shutters, the house in Levittown looks like any other on Long Island. Jon parks in the driveway, but he remains behind the wheel as he eyes the front door. The last time he was here was just before his divorce. Ygritte gave him half an hour to pack his belongings and get out. Thinking he was going to be back soon, he only bothered to fill a single suitcase. That was six years ago.

Jon smokes half a cigarette before getting out of the car. As he walks the steps to the door, he feels his heartbeat quicken. He is not sure if he’s nervous or angry. He thinks back on how he threw the phone over the balcony the last time they talked. He hopes he doesn’t do something he’ll regret.

Before Jon can knock, the door swings open. Ygritte stands in the hallway. The expression on her face is bored. “I wondered if you were going to come in,” she says. “I’m surprised you didn’t just drive away.”

“You’ve been watching me?” Jon asks.

Ygritte just shrugs as a reply and nods for him to enter. As they make their way to the living room, she says: “I’m not ready to move.”

“I can tell,” Jon replies as he looks around. The place is as he remembers; the same furnishing, the same pictures on the wall. The only one missing is their wedding photo on the mantelpiece. The golden frame is empty and dusty. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

“It’s not?” Ygritte sounds hesitant. She folds her arms and leans against the doorframe as she watches Jon walk around the room. “Is it about the money? I already told you - I’ve spent it.”

“It’s not that.” Jon turns on his heels to face Ygritte, and he finishes his cigarette in a single drag. As smoke seeps from his lips, he says: “I’ve met someone.”

Ygritte gives him a blank stare. For a moment, Jon thinks she didn’t hear him. Then she straightens up and walks to the drinks cabinet. “Whisky?” she asks.

“I’m driving,” Jon says.

Ygritte pulls out two glasses and starts filling them with Canadian Club. With her back turned on him, Jon can’t read her expression, but he can see how her hands shake. “Do you still take it neat?”

“Yes - but I really don’t want a drink.”

“But I do, and I never drink alone.” She closes the cabinet and hands him the glass.

Jon takes it, but he doesn’t sip. He watches as his ex-wife empties half of her whisky in one gulp. “I came as a courtesy,” he explains.

Ygritte coughs. Droplets of whisky fly through the air. “Did you? I think you came to gloat.”

“That was not my intention.”

“You’ve never been good with women, have you?” Ygritte sits down on the sofa. She rests her drink in her lap as she looks out of the window. The sun is reflecting in the water of the pool outside. The light glimmers through the thin curtains. “I suppose I should be relieved. I kept thinking we might get back together. Now I know I can move on.”

“We made each other miserable,” Jon reminds her.

“Being a divorced woman isn’t much better. Half the women on this street won’t speak to me, the other half pities me.”

“You should move to the city. No one there cares,” Jon says.

Ygritte scoffs: “So you _did_ just want the place. Are you pretending to be a family already? Where does your little secretary fit into all of this?” She pauses, then realises: “It _is_ your secretary, isn’t it?”

“I really didn’t come to gloat,” Jon says. He sits down across from her. The old armchair groans under his weight. He drops the cigarette butt in the ashtray as he watches her. “I just thought you should hear it from me first.”

Ygritte watches him with pause. “You’re in love,” she says.

Jon’s face goes warm. “I never said that,” he mumbles. He stares into his drink. It suddenly looks tempting.

“You don’t have to say it - I can see it on your face.” Ygritte fishes a cigarette out of her trousers and lights it. “You know, I used to wish for a baby. I knew you wouldn’t love me, so I thought maybe our child would. But you couldn’t even give me that.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say. He keeps staring into the glass of whisky. He wonders if coming was a mistake.

It is as if Ygritte can read his mind. She taps ashes into the tray and sighs: “Well, I guess I’m impressed, really. Six years of phone calls, and the first time you show up in person is to tell me you’re with someone. I always thought you’d either return to fuck me or throw me out.” She lets go of smoke in a hard laugh. “Maybe you’re not who I thought you were.”

“I hope so,” Jon replies and glances up. He meets her eyes. He can see that they gleam wet.

“You look good too,” Ygritte says. She wipes her face in the palm of her hand before having another drag of the cigarette. “You should have dressed down and looked a mess. I would’ve felt better.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says.

“No, you’re not.” Ygritte wipes her face again before looking at her hand. Then, with a sigh, she pulls off her ring and hands it over. “Here,” she says, “you should have it back.”

Jon eyes the ring; golden band with a cluster of diamonds. He swallows. It’s been years since he’s seen it. In truth, he expected Ygritte to have pawned it off. He barely knows what to do. He sits staring in disbelief.

Ygritte smiles a little. “It was your mother’s, wasn’t it?” she asks and, as Jon still doesn’t move, she grabs his hand, opens it up, and puts the ring in his palm. Her fingers linger for a second longer than necessary. When she pulls away, it’s with a quiet sob. “I hope she makes you happy.”

Jon slowly turns the ring. It’s old, but well kept. He can tell she’s had it cleaned recently - the metal shines in the dull light from outside. When he speaks, his voice is a bit shaken: “Thank you.” He looks up at her with honest gratitude. His hand closes around the ring securely. “I appreciate it.”

“I’m still not moving,” Ygritte says.

Jon can’t help but laugh. “One thing at a time.” He puts the ring into the pocket of his jacket and stands up. As Ygritte leads him to the door, he stops on the step outside and holds out his hand. She shakes it briefly. “I hope you’ll be happy,” he says, “wherever you end up.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Ygritte replies.

When Jon gets in his car, she remains in the doorway. As he pulls out of the driveway and sets off down the road, he can still see her in the rearview mirror, her eyes watching him disappear out of sight.

* * *

Jon returns home to the smell of meatloaf. Daenerys is in the kitchen. For a moment, he watches in silence as she potters around in his apron. It is too big for her. The tie on the back hangs past her buttocks. He can’t help but stare. As she leans in over the kitchen sink to wash her hands, he walks up behind her and slips his arms around her waist.

Daenerys yelps in surprise. “Jon!” Her hands clasp on top of his arms. She presses back into his hold. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, his voice sounding anything but. He presses a soft kiss to her head, her ear, her neck. He smells peaches and dinner on her. She has breadcrumbs stuck on her collarbone. He reaches up to brush them off. “You’re cooking?”

“I thought you might be hungry after a long day.” Daenerys turns in his hold and slips her arms around his neck. She watches him with care. “How are you?”

“Tired,” Jon admits. The voices of Robert and Ygritte have started to mix in his head. It already seems like years ago that he had those conversations. All he wants is to rest in the moment with Daenerys. But he knows he owes her more than a single word, so he starts: “I had the meeting-”

“Jon, don’t,” Daenerys stops him. Her hands slips from his hair to his cheeks, and she holds him softly. “I’m sorry about this morning. I don’t want to argue.”

“Neither do I,” Jon says.

“You don’t have to tell me about Robert. Whatever you had to do, you’ve done. I trust you.”

Jon pauses as he looks into Daenerys’ eyes. There is no hint of anger, or annoyance, or doubt to the way she peers back up at him. It makes his heart skip a beat. He’s not sure why. “And I trust you,” he replies in earnest. He drags her hands off his face and holds them, their fingers intertwined. “I need to let you do things your way. I understand that.”

“I don’t need you to pull away,” Daenerys says, “I just need you to listen to me. Sometimes I know what I’m doing. Just ask the Martells.”

“Okay,” Jon says, “I’ll be a better listener.”

“Look at you,” Daenerys jokes and smiles up at him. “And they say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

“Who are you calling old?” Jon chuckles.

Daenerys tip-toes to place a wet kiss on his nose. “Almost forty,” she continues in a teasing voice. Her hands drag down across his chest. His shirt rustles under her touch. “What will I get you for your birthday? One of those new walkers?”

Jon grabs Daenerys by the buttocks and pulls her onto the edge of the counter. As his body pushes between her legs, she gasps in surprise at his eagerness. His hands drag up her dress, exploring their way across her fleshy thigh. Her skin goes from cool to warm the closer he gets to her sex. The sensation alone makes him shiver. “Don’t you worry,” Jon mumbles to Daenerys’ lips, and he swallows her moans as his fingers sink in around her knickers. She is already wet - she welcomes him warmly inside of her. “I have plenty of energy left.”

Daenerys’ arms hang loosely around his shoulders as she rocks down against his hand. Her legs rise to rest at his hips, her ankles urging him even closer than before. Their kiss deepens. The tastes of them mix; smoke, and peaches, and wine. Jon realises she’s been drinking. He senses he can get intoxicated on the scent of her alone.

“Oh God, Jon,” Daenerys gasps as he breaks their kiss. Her cheeks are so red that even her earlobes are blushing. The sight makes him feel warm. “I don’t think we should be doing this in the kitchen.”

“Do you want me to stop?” Jon asks.

Daenerys bites her lower lip. She doesn’t say a word, but she shakes her head and grabs him by the belt. Her fingers tremble a bit when she unzips him. She drags his member out into the heated air between them. In her palms, he throbs hard. “I want you to take me,” she says, and her voice is low with need. “Now.”

Jon needs no further encouragement; instead of undressing, he simply pulls her underwear aside as he sinks into her. Her sex is tight, and he pulls her closer by the legs as he rocks himself all the way into her.

Daenerys gasps. She leans back, her body trapped between him and the cool counter. Her fingertips dig around the edge. It’s like she’s holding onto it for balance. “Oh God,” she moans, and her eyes close as he rocks into her again. Her body jerks with the movement. It makes her thighs jiggle. “Oh God, Jon!”

Jon’s fingers sink into her pale skin, leaving red marks as he takes her deeper. He peers down at her - pink, and wriggling, and breathless, and clothed, sweat dripping down her forehead and her updo coming undone - and he wonders how he was ever alone. How did he wake up for years without her by his side, how did he get through the day on his own, how did he go to bed without Daenerys to hold on to?

How did he spend months fantasising about taking her when he could have been fucking her all along?

It is as if his body wants to make up for time lost. He finds himself taking her harder, quicker, and Daenerys responds with needy groans as she lets him drag her closer to the edge, his hands all over her legs, thighs, and buttocks. His lips touch every inch of her face that he can reach. His breath mixes with hers. He forgets what they taste like apart.

Jon leans in over her. His weight holds her in place as he kisses her. His tongue claims her mouth. His hands dip between her legs. He caresses her sex as he rocks into her one last time, Daenerys’ body tightening around his cock as they both come.

In the afterglow, Jon is sweaty and breathless, but content. Daenerys pants against his neck. Her hands hold him close for a minute longer, keeping him inside of her as she finds her breath. She pecks his chin. She brushes a breadcrumb out of his beard. “Perhaps I shouldn’t trust you,” she teases.

Jon grunts and slowly gets off of her. His knees groan as he tugs himself away before helping Daenerys off the counter. “Maybe I am getting old,” he mournfully admits and rubs his legs. They feel achy. He wonders if he does need a walker after all.

Daenerys chuckles and corrects her skirt. “Then you’re lucky to have me,” she smiles and holds out her hands. “Here, give me your jacket. I’ll fix you a drink.”

Jon shrugs out of his suit jacket and hands it to Daenerys. He waits until she’s out of the kitchen before pouring himself a glass of water. As the drink cools him down, he watches the meatloaf still simmering in the oven. He’s about to check on it when the phone rings. He hears Daenerys answer it in the living room. A moment later, she pops her head into the kitchen. The redness from her cheeks has disappeared - she looks pale.

“Jon,” she says, making him straighten up with worry, “it’s for you. It’s Robert.”

* * *

The white fabric of the gazebo flutters in the breeze. As the sun sets, the hanging lanterns are turned on, and in their dim glow the band starts playing. To the sound of Elvis Presley’s ' _Can’t Help Falling in Love',_ Samwell and Gilly begin to dance. He is flushed with pride. She is heavy with child. As people gather around them to watch, Jon remains by the steps to the estate, smoking.

“They make the rest of us look bad.” Tyrion’s breath is heavy with the stench of alcohol. Even before Jon turns to see him, he can smell him approaching. His face is red, and his suit is dishevelled, but he manages to pull a smile at Jon. His hands close at the bannister. He can barely stand.

Jon has a drag of his cigarette. “You manage that all on your own,” he replies dryly.

Tyrion laughs: “Always ready with a compliment.” He settles on one of the bottom steps and starts rummaging through his suit. By the time he’s turned over every pocket, Jon relents and hands him a cigarette. Tyrion lights the smoke with a happy sigh. “You know,” he says, ashes flying through the air, “we’re all very impressed by what you’ve done.”

“I never knew so many people hated Theon.”

Tyrion shakes his head. “Not that - what you’ve done for Miss Targaryen. It’s admirable.”

“You guys were taking advantage of her,” Jon reminds him with a scoff. He glares down at Tyrion. “You should be grateful I didn’t punch all of you.”

“I suppose,” Tyrion replies, but he doesn’t sound bothered by Jon’s threat. His gaze is focused on Samwell and Gilly. He looks thoughtful. “I sometimes think she’s the only one who deserves to be here,” he says.

Jon licks the taste of smoke off his lips. He follows Tyrion’s gaze to the dancing couple. “We all do good work sometimes,” he says with pause. He can’t afford another fight, not at his employee’s wedding. He chooses his words with care: “We all just need to move on.”

“Theon is here because of his family name,” Tyrion says. He rolls the smoke between his fingertips. “Gendry is here because of Robert. I’m here because of my father. And you-” He pauses.

Jon takes in a deep breath through his nose. He eyes the sky. Between the darkening clouds, he can see stars peeking out. “I’m here because of Robb,” he then says. Everyone knows it. It feels weird to say it out loud. He can’t remember the last time he spoke of his brother to a colleague.

“But Miss Targaryen is not here because of anyone,” Tyrion continues. “What she’s done, she’s done on her own.”

“She has,” Jon agrees. He looks down at Tyrion and finds him peering up at him. His face is ruddy and his eyes are watery with liquor, but there’s a certain honesty to his gaze.

“Ah, forget it.” Tyrion waves his hand dismissively as he gets up. He grimaces as his body struggles down the last few steps before his shoes sink into the grass. “I better go watch them cut the cake,” he says, “it’s normally followed by drinks.” He starts waddling toward the gazebo, but stops when Jon calls out:

“Tyrion.” Jon waits until he turns to look at him. “You should tell her,” he says, “she’ll appreciate it.”

Tyrion seems to hesitate. “Being determined is not all good,” he reminds him with pause. “You know that.”

Petyr’s words play in Jon’s head: _Daenerys displays every character trait that would ensure her success as a man, and therefore she is doomed to fail as a woman._ He snubs his smoke out against the stone and flings it to the bushes. “She’ll find her way,” he then says, “I know she will.”

“I hope you’re right,” Tyrion replies. He then turns on his heels and trudges off.

Jon watches him go in silence. The pocket in his suit suddenly feels all the heavier. He places his hand on top of it as he spots Daenerys out of the corners of his eyes.

Daenerys is in a loose, purple dress. A trail of chiffon blows behind her as she approaches. “You better enjoy tonight, Jon,” she says as she hands him a flute of champagne, “on Monday it’s back to work.” She waits until Jon takes the glass before peering in Tyrion’s direction. “All okay?”

“He needed directions to the bar,” Jon replies, sipping the champagne.

“He can barely walk.” Daenerys slips under Jon’s arm and nestles against his chest. They stand watching Samwell and Gilly as the dance ends. The gathering crowd breaks out into an applause. She smiles wistfully. “They look lovely together.”

Jon wonders how Gilly can even walk. Her white dress is stretched over her protruding belly. She looks like she’s ready to give birth at any moment. But to Daenerys, he merely says: “They do,” and sips his champagne some more before he can make a sarcastic comment.

Daenerys chuckles and pats his cheek. “I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “I always know what you’re thinking.”

“You seemed rather unaware back at the office.”

“I may not have said anything, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t catch you staring.” Daenerys turns in his hold and sends him a teasing smile. “What man needs his ice bucket filled ten times a day?”

“I drink a lot.”

“Mhm, so if I’d sent Old Nan to fix your drinks, you’d been just as happy?”

Jon grabs the champagne out of her hand and sets their glasses down on the steps. He holds her by the waist. “Dance with me,” he says.

“You’re a bad liar,” Daenerys replies, but she follows him as he guides her onto the grassy field in front of the estate.

They’re at the outskirts of the gazebo - outside the bumbling crowd, but close enough to hear the band. A new song has started; _‘The Way You Look Tonight’_ teases the air. No lyrics have ever sounded more true to Jon as he slowly leads Daenerys. Their bodies are close. Their lips hover. He feels his heart skip a beat as he peers into her eyes. She looks back at him with a warmth he’s never known before.

“So I guess it’s Mr Snow again,” Daenerys says.

“And I suppose it’s Miss Targaryen,” Jon replies.

“I can’t wait to be your secretary again. Even if I have to get you ice ten times in a day.”

“How about twenty times?”

“Don’t push your luck, Mister.”

Jon laughs, and Daenerys’ nose wrinkles in a giggle. He feels a bit out of breath. His hand sinks to the pocket of his jacket. “Daenerys,” he says, and his voice comes out in a more serious tone than he intended. “You know I think of you as more than just my secretary.”

Daenerys’ cheeks go a bit pale. As Jon’s fingers are about to slip into his pocket, she closes her hand atop of his and draws it back. “Jon,” she says, and she shakes her head as her teeth sink into her lower lip. “Don’t.”

Jon blinks at her. “Don’t?” he asks.

“Oh, Jon,” Daenerys sighs, and she presses a soft kiss to his knuckles. They’ve stopped dancing. They are still close. She holds his hand to her heart as she peers up at him. “I want everything for us, I really do. Everything that a man and woman can wish for. But we shouldn’t rush.” As Jon still looks at her perplexes, she admits: “I found the ring. I didn’t look for it, I promise, but when I hung up your jacket the other day, I found it in your pocket.”

“What do you think I’m going to do?” Jon asks.

Daenerys sends him a pained look. “Propose?” she says, but her voice is hesitant. “These things should take time, Jon. I want to do the right thing. I want you to meet my father, and my mother, and I want us to live together, and-”

“Daenerys.” Jon presses a quick kiss to her lips. As she quiets, he sends her a warm smile, and under her watchful eyes, he slips his hand into his pocket and withdraws a golden plaque. It is small, and it is shiny, and when he turns it to face her, she reads the name on the sign:

“Daenerys Targaryen,” Daenerys reads, and her eyes widen and her voice goes shrill as she finishes: “ _Assistant Copywriter?"_

“You’re not coming back as my secretary,” Jon says, “not fully, at least. Robert still wants you to cover my desk until we get someone else in place, and even then we’ll have to share a girl.”

“Jon-” Daenerys says. Her voice is breathless. When she takes the plaque from his hands, her fingers tremble.

“We’ll have to share an office,” Jon continues, “if you want your own, you’ll have to prove yourself. It won’t be easy.”

“Jon-” Daenerys starts again, but, once more, Jon continues his ramblings:

“I didn’t do anything. I did as you said - I let your work speak for itself. Robert looked at your ads and he agreed that it was the right next step. What happens from now is your decision. I-”

“Jon,” Daenerys interrupts him, and she grabs him by the cheeks as she kisses him. He can taste her tears on her skin. The salt seems sweet on the tip of his tongue. When she pulls back, she peers at him with wet, joyful eyes. “Thank you.”

“You did it all yourself,” Jon replies. His voice is low and quiet. He tries not to appear moved, but he can feel his eyes ache a little. He grabs her by the waist as he pulls her close. “It’s all you.”

“It’s all me,” Daenerys repeats, and she laughs a little. With the plaque squeezed in her hand, she wraps her arm back around his neck, the other hand intertwining with his as she lets him lead her into a slow dance. Tears are still slipping down her cheeks.

“I guess you’re not ready for marriage,” Jon teases.

Daenerys lets go of a happy sob and says: “I feel so silly.”

“Now I know to ask your father first.”

“Mhm, and my mother. She’d love to meet the man who helped me find my own place.”

“I mean it - it won’t be easy,” Jon repeats, thinking back on his talk with Tyrion. “Some of the men will resent you. Some of them will not work with you.”

“I can take anything,” Daenerys says, her voice confident, and she leans in, her lips close to Jon as she says: “As long as you’re with me.”

“I’m with you,” Jon promises, his eyes fluttering shut as she kisses him again. As they dance, the stars above them and the lights glimmering around them, the music in the air and the scent of peaches filling his nostrils, he adds in his thought: always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe that this is the end. Has it really been 9 weeks? It feels like I only started posting yesterday!
> 
> I know a lot of you wanted Jon and Daenerys to elope and start their own firm. I hope I managed to explain why that wasn't their course of action. As unfair as it seems, having Daenerys lead her own team of copywriters just wasn't doable for a 1960s setting - no matter how capable she is. Although I can definitely see her getting there through hard work and recognition! The 70s better watch out.
> 
> Speaking of Daenerys, there is so much more to her character and background than I could fit into this story. I am wary of doing a "part 2" as I know those never live up to the expectations - but I'd still love to hear your thoughts on this! Would you care to read more?
> 
> Let me just finish by saying how humbled both DragonandDirewolf and I have been by your comments. Your feedback and your continued support have meant the world to us. Thank you so, so much! The Jonerys fandom is truly blessed to have you.


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